


leaving the rocks in such blind order

by perfectlystill



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, brief mention of cancer involving a very minor character, tagging how does one do it, the other 3 boys are in this but they're not major characters so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1196403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Harry’s confused. He’s confused that he didn’t see this coming because Louis and Eleanor have been together for a long time, hooking up turning into something more serious. And moving in together is the next step, logically. They’re happy, and so why wouldn’t they want this? But Harry thought, well, he thought he’d be included in the discussion, is the thing. He thought they’d ask him what he thought; thought Louis would tell him he was thinking about moving in with Eleanor – or having Eleanor moving in with them. He didn’t think it’d be something just for the two of them and not for Harry at all.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or, the one where Louis is dating both Eleanor and Harry, and when he asks Eleanor if she wants to live together, Harry thinks that means Louis doesn’t want to live with him anymore, and he feels kind of shitty about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	leaving the rocks in such blind order

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Keira for putting together such a love mix, [here](http://quietgalaxy.livejournal.com/2161.html%22).
> 
> And, of course, thanks so much to [Molly](http://underwaternow.tumblr.com/) for being there during every step of this process, from looking at the outline, yelling at me to keep writing, and betaing. And thanks to [Isobel](http://aragons.tumblr.com/) for britpicking and looking it over. I appreciate it so much, and this fic wouldn't be finished or what it is without either of you. 
> 
> Any remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> I do not own anything and am not profiting off this in any way. The fourth wall is a gift everyone should strive to keep in tact, and this is lies compounded by more lies. Title from Vampire Weekend's "Giant."

When the television light flashes it hurts Harry’s eyes. He shuts off all the lights and closes the curtains after throwing together some weird sandwich with what they had left in the fridge, plus some crisps because Niall assured him it would be life-changing. It wasn’t so bad, honestly, a little too salty, but the crunch was nice. 

Harry’s not really paying attention to whatever film’s playing on telly because he keeps checking the time on his phone and sending Ed stupid potential song lyrics like _her face colored like a tomato / and i was all like ‘let’s go_.’ He’s bored and full and feeling a bit restless because he hasn’t really done anything today except sleep in and play Fifa with Louis before Louis left to pick up Eleanor. His back is starting to ache because of how he’s sprawled across the sofa, and his eyes have gone bleary. 

He lifts his head when the door opens, light spilling in from the hallway. Eleanor is saying something about her jumper before she sighs and kicks her shoes off, bending over to, Harry assumes, line them up by the door. “Hi Harry,” she says.

“Hey,” Harry responds, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. “How was dinner?”

“Amazing.” He can make out Eleanor’s smile in the dark, Louis pressing his face into her hair. “It was really great. How are you?”

“Good. Made myself a sandwich and everything.”

“Woah, fancy,” Louis mocks, shaking his head like he cannot possibly believe Harry made a sandwich all by himself, hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Next thing you know you’ll be on _Masterchef_.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s was quite good. Even put crisps in it.”

“Ah, Nialler has taught you well.” Louis kicks off his shoes, leaves them splayed in the doorway and jumps onto the couch, foot knocking into Harry’s side. “Wanna watch a movie with us?”

Eleanor finishes hanging her coat in the closet and walks over, motioning for Louis to sit up before she takes the space between him and the armrest, tucking her feet beneath herself. “We’ll even let you pick.”

“I was here first,” Harry protests, but Louis just laces his fingers through Harry’s and sighs, “On the planet?” When Harry can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes, he just gives up.

“But not any of those romance movies you trot out every time I’m over,” Eleanor says.

“Yeah, give us some variety tonight,” Louis agrees, letting go of Harry’s hand and pushing at his shoulder. 

Harry rolls his eyes and walks over to the DVD shelf, running his finger along the spines. “It’s not my fault you can’t appreciate the timelessness of _Titanic_.”

“Nothing that long,” Eleanor adds, “I’ve got to be back with the girls soon.”

“No one is saying it’s not a timeless classic, babe,” Louis adds, “We’re just saying we don’t want to watch it once a week, is all.”

“Fine,” Harry grouses.

He picks _Snow White_ because he loves singing along to “Heigh Ho” and hearing Louis make fun of all the dwarfs—“Why can’t they just let Grumpy take a bloody nap?” He likes the warm press of Louis at his side, likes when Louis says Harry’s got the same pale skin as Snow White, and he even likes how Eleanor tells Louis to shut it when he starts in on how unrealistic the Queen looks as an old lady because “surely with magic she could make herself a hot grandmother, come on, Disney. There’s only so much disbelief I can reasonably suspend.”

When it’s over Louis is too comfy to walk Eleanor to the door, and when Harry offers her a ride she says she’ll just take the tube. Louis presses a light kiss to the corner of her mouth and flops back down onto Harry, head in his lap. Harry runs his fingers through Louis’ hair and tilts his head back, closing his eyes. He can hear the rustle of Eleanor putting her jacket on again. 

“Hey,” Louis calls, “think about what I asked, yeah?”

There’s a beat and then Eleanor says, “Of course. I’ll let you know.”

When she’s gone and the flat is quiet again, the only light in the room coming from the DVD menu painting Louis multicolored, Harry asks, “What did you ask her about?”

“Oh, nothing.” Louis smiles up at Harry and smacks his cheek lightly. “Carry me to bed?”

Harry grunts, but he’s not going to pass up the opportunity. 

 

 

Harry’s whisking eggs, the buttered pan heating up on the stove, listening as Louis explains how fucking amazing the crème brûlée tasted at dinner with Eleanor last night and humming in all the right places. When he pours the eggs into the pan Louis kicks out at Harry, toes brushing against his thigh. “Better than your crème brûlée, even.”

Harry huffs. “I’ve only made it one time.”

“And it was subpar,” Louis says, voice soft like he’s giving bad news to a toddler having a temper tantrum, hand spread over his chest. 

“I’m going to make it again. It’ll be the best thing you’ve ever tasted, and then you can shove off.” Harry stirs the eggs around with a spatula as they start to fluff up.

“Don’t be jealous, Harry.” Louis reaches over and flicks his arm. “You’re a domestic goddess.”

Harry’s mouth twitches up. “Do you think we should redecorate the bedroom?”

Louis makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, reaching over and snatching some scrambled egg from the pan. Harry smacks his arm, but Louis pops it into his mouth anyway before saying, “Needs salt.”

“They’re not finished yet.” Harry flips off the stove and reaches for the seasoning he set out earlier. “We’ve been meaning to fix the bedroom for a while, yeah? And we have that break soon. We could like, have an accent wall? I was thinking dark red because there were some cool rooms I saw online done like that.” Harry’s voice picks up slightly in pace, pitching higher because he loves the idea of fixing up the flat with Louis, making it even more their own. It’ll make it all seem more permanent, and the idea of forever has long ago turned into something warm and comforting in his head, bubbling in his blood. “Maybe get some darker end tables and stuff? Nice matching wood ones kind of like my mum and Robin have.” 

“Are you gonna hang up blurry, black and white hipster photos on the walls, too?” Louis asks, grabbing the toast when it pops out and placing both pieces on the plate sitting next to him. “Because I’m not that much of a wanker.”

“They’re just ideas.” Harry pouts, holding his palm out and up so Louis hands him a plate. He scoops half the eggs onto it before forking the ham he warmed up earlier and sliding it next to the toast. “We don’t have to commit to something right away. We should just start planning, yeah?”

“I don’t know,” Louis says, grabbing his plate and pushing off the counter. He doesn’t look Harry in the eyes and shrug like he really means _Okay, let’s do it_.

Harry spins around to look at him. “Why’re you being so weird, Lou?”

Louis sets his plate on the kitchen table and then turns so he’s facing Harry. He sticks his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants and shakes his head, eyes on the floor. ‘I’m not being weird.”

“Louis,” Harry says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Are too.”

“Are too,” Louis mocks, voice high and nasally. He looks up at Harry now, eyes piercing blue and laser focused. “I’m fine, H. Honest.” He walks forward and pries Harry’s arms away from his chest so they’re dangling at his sides, places his hands on Harry’s hips. “Promise I’m not being weird.”

Harry mumbles, “You are, though,” but Louis’ nails are digging into his hipbones now, sharp like they’re going to leave little indents, his back is pressed against the counter and it’s absolutely stupid how his breath catches in his throat as though he’s still sixteen, when the anticipation was almost too much, a surprising tug in his belly half the time Louis would even look at him. 

Louis rolls his eyes and rocks up on his toes, kissing Harry with his toothpaste mouth, kissing rough and biting hard on Harry’s bottom lip, teeth catching painfully so Harry gasps, snakes his arms around Louis and pulls him closer, hands kneading at his arse. Louis licks over the bite and then licks into Harry’s mouth, and when he breaks away to breathe all Harry can think to say is “It’s good you didn’t drink orange juice yet.”

Louis laughs, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, so Harry leans forward and presses his mouth against Louis’ cheekbone before dragging it down and back against Louis’ mouth, a gentle press until Louis rocks his hips forward and Harry opens up, turning them around and lifting Louis back onto the counter.

“I’m gonna kiss the toothpaste out of your mouth,” he says, voice low.

“Aren’t you a gentleman?” Louis quips, but his breathing’s heavy, eyes glazed over and pupils blown wide.

“That’s right,” Harry smiles, hands spreading Louis’ thighs so he can step between them. He kisses the soft, sensitive patch of skin behind Louis’ ear, nibbles on his earlobe, lets his warm breath ghost over the skin there before he whispers, “Gonna suck you, too.”

There’s almost nothing he loves more than feeling the muscles in Louis’ thighs jump under his palms when he says that, his mouth going slack. 

 

 

They’ve been in America for too long and it’s starting to stress Louis out. Harry can see it in the line of Louis’ shoulders, the set of his mouth, knows it because of how Louis had jerked him off fast and rough last night. Louis’ sprawled on the couch in the hotel suite, thumbing through his phone, and Harry’s watching him from the bed, eyes focused and thinking about whether there’s something he can do to get Louis to relax, maybe run a warm bath or give him a back massage or eat him out until he’s a moaning, writhing mess gone boneless. 

But Eleanor’s flying in and should be at the hotel soon. So there’s really not enough time for Harry to properly do any of that. Harry can never tell whether Eleanor will be in a good mood when she arrives, and if she’s exhausted, jetlegged and grumpy, it will only make Louis go tauter even as his face slumps with exhaustion. Something about her bad mood rubbing off on him and then rubbing off on Harry until all three of them are tense and too sharp with everyone, an inexplicable anger bubbling up until Niall drags Harry away for drinks and pizza and, ideally, a round of golf. 

There’s a knock on the door and Harry watches Louis glance up from his phone and press his lips into a thin line. He doesn’t say anything, so there’s a long beat before Harry calls, “Come in.”

The door creaks open and then Eleanor’s poking her head in, a small smile crinkling around her eyes. “I’m here,” she says before coming in, rolling her suitcase after her and letting her bag fall off her shoulder. Eleanor gently kicks the door closed and then opens her arms up like she’s waiting for a hug. “Well, come on. I don’t have all day.”

Louis rolls his eyes as he shoves his phone into his pocket and pushes off the couch, but his face is already clearer, and Harry blinks his eyes closed when they hug, a tug of relief pulling at him – she’s here and she’s happy and that’s the best case scenario. There’s a tug of jealousy, too, burning in Harry’s chest, because Harry’s been trying to make Louis ease his shoulders back all day. 

“How are you?” Eleanor asks Harry, allowing Louis to grab her wrist and drag her over to the couch. 

“Good,” Harry says. “Everything’s really hectic, but good.”

“Ready for the show tonight?”

“I will be.” Harry nods and shakes out his hair. Louis’s got his arm wrapped around Eleanor’s waist, his hand rubbing and squeezing at her hip. Eleanor bites her lip, and Harry can tell she’s about to say something else, keep the conversation going even if it’s only stilted small talk, because she’d never ask him to leave, has never outright asked him to give her some time alone with Louis. “I think I’m supposed to find Lou. She said something about taming my mane, earlier.”

“Oh.” Eleanor, at least, has the decency to look disappointed. 

Louis clucks his tongue and smiles, strained but genuine. “You are looking a bit like Cousin It, best to get that sorted, Haz.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“You’re always missed,” Louis says, and it’s a joke, but there’s a softness beneath the words that makes Harry’s mouth twist up as he waves and begins backing out of the room. 

“Dinner, though?” Eleanor asks. 

“Yeah, of course.” Harry worries his lip between his teeth and takes his exit.

It’s not weird anymore, Louis dating both him and Eleanor. It had taken Harry by surprise at first, when Louis and Eleanor met and Louis had laughed too loud at her jokes, cheeks flushing with the effort, hand skimming against her wrist. Harry hadn’t known what to do at the time except for drag Louis away, a petulant pout on his face before he’d sucked a lovebite onto Louis’s neck, dark and visible. Louis had just laughed and kissed him until his lips were swollen and sore. 

It was weird when that hadn’t been the end of it, when Louis had gotten her number before they left and started texting her regularly. But Louis hadn’t pulled away. And Harry hadn’t thought too much about it until they’d been eating fajitas one night and Louis had said, with some sauce dripping down his chin, “I think I want to take Eleanor out.”

Harry had blinked slowly, wiping at the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb. “Like, with a gun?”

Louis had laughed, somehow light and harsh, too loud and almost fake. “No, on a date. I don’t have it in me to commit murder.”

Harry had raised an eyebrow, tried to keep his face calm and his breathing steady. “You sure?”

Louis had rolled his eyes, but he conceded: “Maybe.” He took a sip of his beer and Harry had watched his Adam’s apple when he swallowed. “That okay? If I take Eleanor on a date? Don’t just say yes because it’s what I want.”

Harry nodded and bit his lip until he thought it might be bleeding. Louis had looked down at his plate, poking at a stray pepper. With his shoulders hunched and his brow furrowed, Louis appeared small, like he’d just revealed something about himself that was private. Harry already couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t loved Louis, hadn’t always wanted Louis to be so happy he glowed with it, hadn’t understood all that Louis had to offer everyone he met – people he hadn’t even met, too. 

“Okay,” Harry had said on an exhale. 

Louis’ head had snapped up, eyes searching. “Okay?”

Harry had nodded, throat gone dry. “Okay,” he repeated, the word just as soft and low as the first time, making his throat itch. But Louis had smiled then, not enough to crinkle his eyes, but he had smiled and said, “Thank you.”

And Harry had gotten used to it, used to sharing even though he’s never been particularly adept at it, not when it came to Louis, at least. It helped that Louis had asked how he was doing the first few months, always pressing kisses to his eyebrows and his nose and his chin as they were falling asleep. The solid press of Louis’ arm wrapped around his waist solid and reassuring. 

Now it’s just kind of the way things are, Louis and Eleanor and Louis and Harry. Now Harry has trouble remembering a time when it was different. 

 

 

Harry pulls at the edge of his shirt, shakes out his hair, flips it, and cracks his knuckles. His entire body is humming, anticipation running through his veins. They can’t hear the crowd from back in the dressing room, but the roar will come through the walls when they leave, when they get closer to the stage, erupting when they’re behind it, ready to run out and perform. 

Harry loves this feeling. He’s a little anxious -- he’s always a little anxious, but he’s breathing and he’s not going to vomit, and he’s mostly excited. 

Niall is strumming on an air guitar, lip caught between his teeth as he moves his fingers. His foot taps and his entire body moves with each imaginary beat, taut and ready. Zayn and Liam are in the corner, laughing and thumbing through the clothing rack, Zayn moving his hand to rest steadily and comfortingly on Liam’s shoulder. Everything feels like it always does before a show and --

Well, almost everything.

Eleanor’s sitting on a couch with Louis, their hands laced together and her legs draped over his lap. Their heads are bent toward each other and Eleanor’s got a soft, warm smile on her face. Harry can make out Louis’ lips moving but he can’t hear any of it. It’s not that Harry’s never seen them like this before, because he has. He’s seen them like this during mornings after Eleanor has slept over and on nights when they’re sitting on the couch pretending to watch telly but not even bothering to glance at the muted screen. It’s just that he’s never seen them like this before in public.

And, okay, Harry admits it’s not quite public. But Eleanor usually gets antsy about PDA and having people’s eyes on her and Louis, judging and probing and wondering. The boys won’t do that, but she still doesn’t tend to do more than press into his side and hold his hand. She’s private. 

Before shows she usually sits in a chair, knees tucked up to her chest, smiling and humming along to whatever’s playing in the dressing room before she watches from backstage or in the section cornered off for their guests. Before shows Louis is usually holding Harry’s hand, squeezing encouragingly and rambling about anything: the worst beer he’s ever had; a documentary about construction he caught the end of; how he thinks he hit his toe on something while he was sleeping because there’s a little bruise on it that doesn’t hurt. 

Harry likes that. Likes the distraction and how funny Louis always is and how it takes his mind off any stress lingering in the set of his shoulders and tugging at his jaw, leaving just the thrill and the excitement. 

And when he looks at them again, Louis leaning in to press a short kiss square on Eleanor’s mouth, something gets heavy in Harry’s stomach, foreboding and tight and odd. He feels like it’s all wrong, like something has gone terribly wrong and maybe his hands are going to start shaking and he’s going to break into a cold sweat and vomit. Maybe he’s going to puke even though he hasn’t done that before a show in so long. 

Shaking his head, Harry takes a deep breath, bounces on his heels and tries to relax. He’s fine. Everything’s fine. Zayn’s got a smile pulling at his face because Niall’s tripped over a chord for Lou’s blowdryer and Liam’s asking if he’s okay and Niall’s cackling. 

“Do that onstage, Niall,” Louis calls, “The crowd will love it.” 

“Oi, Tommo. Maybe I’ll trip you.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Niall shrugs and smiles before turning back to Zayn and Liam. 

“I’m watching you, Niall,” Louis says. Eleanor rolls her eyes at him and he laughs, quiet and private, like it’s just for the two of them.

Harry doesn’t feel ignored. Knows the boys are used to Louis holding his attention during these ten minutes because Louis always makes everything better, brighter. He takes away the insecurities and the bad bits and just leaves the good. 

But he’s not used to getting ready for shows alone, especially when he and Louis haven’t gotten into a stupid fight about who ate the last bagel. When he’s angry, or pretending to be angry, at least there’s a reason, something to focus on besides how things have all tilted off their axis. 

And that’s it, really. He thinks there must be a reason Eleanor and Louis are cosied up on the sofa, in a bubble that makes Harry feel distant and unimportant, an afterthought. They probably fucked, but that doesn’t explain the glow, how openly touchy Eleanor is being, the knot getting tighter and tighter in Harry’s stomach.

When Paul comes to usher them to the stage, Eleanor and Louis untangle themselves from each other and Eleanor kisses Harry on the cheek. “Smash it,” she says, grinning before pulling him into a quick sideways hug. 

And as the five of them stand backstage, waiting for their cue, Louis grabs Harry’s hand, his palm warm and slightly damp, his smile crinkling around his bright, bright eyes. 

“Hi,” Harry says, already starting to feel better. The rock in his stomach giving way to the normal flutter of excitement, adrenaline making him swing their hands. He was clearly being ridiculous. Just a change to the pre-show routine -- a change that makes sense considering Eleanor can’t be here all the time and Louis probably just wants to monopolize his time with her -- making him overthink everything. The nerves tend to do that to him, he knows. Panic attacks sharp in his memory, where he’s sure he’s going to die, that his throat is going to close up and he’ll never be able to sing again, all the breath in his lungs rushing out of him and refusing to go back in.

That’s all it was: pre-show anxiety. And he didn’t have an attack and he’s fine. And Louis’ squeezing his hand, leaning over and pressing a kiss to Harry’s cheek before shout-whispering in his ear to be heard over the crowd: “I love you.”

“Love you, too.” 

And then they’re all running onstage to a wall of sound, and the familiar exuberance takes over. Everything that isn’t this moment, these fans, this arena, fading away. 

 

 

He sits on the edge of the hotel bed, toes digging into the plush carpet. Harry’s settled in: dropped his bag at the foot of the bed, showered, walked around the suite to get used to where the kitchenette and dining areas are. It’s not the biggest room he’s ever been in, not the nicest, but it far exceeds what’s acceptable. 

His body hums with the lack of show tonight, excess energy he’s used to using up thrumming under his skin and through his veins. The quiet and stillness does nothing to relax the tension settled in his shoulders and tugging at the base of his spine. He could try to rope someone into going out with him, explore the city they’re in, but they all seemed relieved to stop moving for a few days, their eyes tired and their bodies loosening. 

He grabs his phone, scrolls through his text messages, shoots one off to Ed before one comes in from Niall: _need u for fifa at zayns!!_ It’s the best offer Harry’s going to get all night.

When he knocks on Zayn’s door he hears scuffling and then Liam is pulling it open, smiling. “Took you long enough.”

Harry rolls his eyes and sees the damage already done to this room. They’ve got two pizza boxes open on the table, Niall’s shoes flung across the floor and Zayn’s jacket tossed on the rumpled bed sheets from the nap he most definitely took the minute they arrived. Zayn and Niall are spread on the floor in front of the bed and the telly, Niall reaching across the space between them to elbow Zayn. 

“Don’t,” Zayn warns; Niall’s smile widens. 

“Help yourself to some pizza,” Liam says, motioning toward the table before dropping down next to Zayn. 

“If you eat the last slice of pepperoni I’ll kill ya, mate,” Niall calls, sparing a second to glare at Harry.

“Thanks for the hospitality.” Harry grabs a slice topped with vegetables and takes a bite. It’s surprisingly salty but surprisingly good. He grabs a napkin and walks directly in front of the telly just to hear Zayn and Niall curse at him before sitting down next to Niall, nudging his leg. 

After Niall wins and Zayn accuses him of being a little shit because elbowing him and covering his eyes is against the bloody rules, Zayn’s phone vibrates and he picks it up, a soft smile spreading over his face, eyes crinkling in the corners. 

“Oh,” Harry coos, “must be Perrie.”

“Shove off,” Zayn says around a smile, typing a response. 

“You’re so whipped,” Niall says, falling sideways so his head’s in Zayn’s lap. 

“And you’re an arse.” There’s no venom behind the words, Zayn carding his fingers through Niall’s hair before pushing him off his legs, a brightness in his eyes that only ever comes from talking about Perrie.

“It’s cute. Makes me want to puke,” Niall laughs. “I love it.”

“Perrie ate a sandwich today. Perrie wore a beanie today. Perrie took a nap today,” Liam says, dropping his voice low and mumbling through the words. 

“I hate you, Liam.” Zayn shoves Liam and rolls his eyes. “I’m going to kick you all out of my room.”

“If you do I’ll tell Perrie not to talk to you for the rest of the night,” Harry says before finishing off his pizza, wiping his hands on his napkin.

Zayn huffs. “Like you’re one to talk, Haz.”

“Yeah,” Liam says thoughtfully, “You and Louis are way worse than Perrie and Zayn.”

“We are not!” Harry throws the crumpled napkin at Liam, but it falls short, landing on the carpet. Judging by the way Liam shakes his head, grabs it and gets up to toss it in the trash, Harry decides his mission was a success.

“Are too, mate,” Niall says, kicking at Harry’s thighs with his foot. “Louis, do you want me to get you some fruit? Louis, do you need some water? Louis, do you want me to throw my jacket over this puddle for you?”

Zayn and Liam are laughing, and Harry groans, biting down on his lip to keep from smiling. “You’re just jealous Louis doesn’t suck you off.”

“Oi!” Niall twists around on the floor and grabs Harry in a headlock, rubbing at Harry’s head with his knuckles.

“This is unfair!” Harry shouts, laughter finally spilling out as he kicks around, shoving half-heartedly at Niall’s shoulders. 

He sees Zayn’s phone light up with response, sees Zayn’s face light up, too. He can hear Liam laughing, and when he catches a glimpse of him, his face is fondly exasperated. It’s nice, normal. Harry loves his boys so much, loves that Niall is laughing against him, knuckles softening on his head as he kicks out and hits the controller. 

Harry stops worrying about Louis and Eleanor acting strange, stops worrying that something is going on there that is royally going to fuck with him, stops overthinking things when he’s probably just been in a mood. He just laughs, wrestling Niall to the ground as Zayn says, “Don’t you fucking dare break the Xbox or I’ll cut off both your dicks.”

“Wouldn’t,” Harry breathes out.

“Niall did kick the telly on the bus once.” The screen had shattered like a window that’s been hit with a rock. 

“Once!” Niall shouts. “That happened one time and I bought a new telly!”

But he stops struggling against Harry and Harry pumps his arms in victory. “I am the champion!”

“Let’s see if you can beat me and Zayn in Fifa, then?” Niall cocks an eyebrow, and, yeah, Harry doesn’t think he’d want to be anywhere else right now. He feels like he’s relaxed, realigned his brain and seen how dumb he was being before. 

Everything’s going to be good and normal, and he’s going to kick Zayn and Niall’s arses, with or without Liam’s help.

 

 

There’s a light pressure on Harry’s forehead, temple, nose, cheek, chin, and Harry’s eyes flutter open. The room’s curtains are drawn and the lights are off and he blinks a few times, wiping at his eyes. “Lou?”

“Hey,” Louis whispers, smile in his voice.

“What’re you doing here?” Harry asks, his voice rough with sleep. He glances at the clock: 2:08 flashing blocky and red where it stares back at him. When he looks at Louis he feels like maybe he’s dreaming, even though the press of Louis along his side and the soft smile looking down at him is something he’d recognize as Louis, real and there, anywhere. 

“Missed you,” Louis says and presses his palm against Harry’s stomach, warm and comforting, real and there.

Harry would normally roll his eyes, but his bones are still heavy with sleep and Louis normally wouldn’t say he missed him after less than twelve hours apart, so he just lets the words soak in for a moment, stretching his legs and flexing his toes. He turns to look at Louis, feels his lips tug up. “Missed you, too.”

“I have good news.”

“What?” Harry asks. He blinks slowly, feels Louis toes digging into his calf. 

“I asked El to move in with me and she said yes.” 

Harry can make out his smile in the dark, it’s small but genuine, just starting to pull at his eyes. Harry blinks again and tries to make his brain start working. “What?”

“I asked Eleanor if she wanted to live together, and tonight she told me that she wants to,” Louis says, slower this time, and Harry feels like maybe his brain is floating in caramel because he still isn’t sure he gets it. “Isn’t that great?” Louis asks, an edge to his voice even as it drops quieter.

“Yeah.” Harry shakes his head, goosepimples popping up on his arms, the thermostat turned low from when he went to sleep.

“We should probably sell the flat, yeah? It kind of smells like burnt popcorn, and you wanted to redecorate the bedroom anyway. Plus, all the boys have moved out of the complex. There’s nothing keeping us there.” Louis shrugs before biting his bottom lip, as though he’s nervous about Harry’s reaction and well--

Harry’s confused. He’s confused that he didn’t see this coming because Louis and Eleanor have been together for a long time, hooking up turning into something more serious, and moving in together is the next step, logically. They’re happy, and so why wouldn’t they want this? But Harry thought, well, he thought he’d be included in the discussion, is the thing. He thought they’d ask him what he thought; thought Louis would tell him he was thinking about moving in with Eleanor – or having Eleanor moving in with them. 

He didn’t think it’d be something just for the two of them and not for Harry at all. 

He’s just, confused. 

Sleepy and confused and he can’t process this right now. “Yeah,” he says, words stretching like taffy in his mouth, slower than usual. “Makes sense”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “You okay, Haz?”

“Yeah,” Harry repeats, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head in an attempt to clear it so he can act like a normal human being who doesn’t feel like he’s just been kicked repeatedly in the stomach. “I’m just tired, is all. That’s great, Louis. Really.”

“Yeah?” Louis’s smiling again, soft and hesitant, fingers tapping a beat into Harry’s stomach. 

“Really,” Harry says, even though he doesn’t quite mean it. 

He’s thinking about what this means, about how he’ll have to get a place of his own. He’s going to have to house hunt all on his own, and it’s going to be a hassle, and he’s going to get stressed out and probably call Mum or Gemma in tears because the place will be too big and impersonal for one person, because there’s no one to pick up after. And Louis knows that Harry hates being alone, never wanted to live alone. Harry wonders if Louis even remembers that or if he’s too busy being happy about Eleanor. 

“Okay.” Louis scans Harry’s face and then lies down, head on Harry’s chest and arms wrapped around his waist. “Good.”

“You gonna stay here?” Harry asks, hand running up and down Louis’ back, his shirt bunching and smoothing back down with the motion.

“Yeah. Love you,” Louis whispers into Harry’s collarbone. 

“Love you, too,” Harry says, trying not to be sad and angry and confused and tired. 

Maybe he’ll move in with Nick just to piss Louis off. He’ll live with Nick and cook Nick breakfast before the sun even comes up and do Nick’s laundry and Louis will miss him so terribly and Harry won’t care at all because he’ll have a roommate who’s his friend and he won’t be living alone.

Except he doesn’t want to live with Nick. He hates waking up before the sun and Nick does it almost every day, would make all sorts of noise in the kitchen without caring about disturbing Harry. Nick would insist on buying the cleaner that smells like lemon instead of pine, and it would be terrible.

Nick isn’t Louis, and Harry just wants to live with Louis.

He thought it was sorted. He and Louis would live together always. That was it. It was done. Finished. 

He slips his hands under Louis’s shirt, pressing his palms against warm skin, and he buries his face in Louis’ hair. 

He’s just going to breathe, and maybe tomorrow it’ll all be a dream.

 

 

Harry’s scanning the room service menu, not bothering to look at Eleanor and Louis sharing one where they’re perched on the bed. He was really hoping to get out of the hotel, clear his head with a change in surrounding, maybe try some food he’s never had before. But the three of them can’t go anywhere together on such short notice – without a plan in place, at least – and Louis had groaned about Harry being a spoilsport, so he’s sitting at the table in Louis’ suite, feet kicked up on the chair next to him, and trying to decide if he wants a burger or steak.

“Should we order a bunch of these baby shrimp appetizers to split?” Eleanor asks.

Louis shrugs, “I don’t care.”

“Harry?” Eleanor looks at him, hair curling over her shoulder. 

“That’s fine.”

“Good.” She smiles. “That’s probably all I’m gonna eat, so. I wonder how big an order is.”

“Doesn’t matter how much we get, really. Niall will eat any extra,” Louis says. He taps his knuckles against her thigh and falls backward on the bed, stretching his arms above his head. 

Eleanor hums. “Still. We can ask when we call down.”

“Live on the edge, love.” Louis closes his eyes, looks like he could fall asleep in minutes and nap until dinner. 

“I’ll do whatever I want,” Eleanor says, grinning even as she pushes at his legs. “You’re not the boss of me.”

Louis laughs, and Harry smiles. He likes spending time together, all three of them, and it doesn’t happen often, so he tries to appreciate it when it does. It feels weird though, being in Louis’ hotel room, sitting feet away from them, like he doesn’t quite belong here, even though he knows he’s wanted. Eleanor had practically dragged him away from the Xbox. 

They order and then sit quietly while they wait. Louis flips through the channels and almost forces them to watch a show where a woman isn’t sure if her husband or his brother is the father of her child. Harry and Eleanor scroll through their phones, and Harry somehow ends up on Wikipedia, reading about the trombone and glissandos. 

“Hey, Louis,” Eleanor says, loud and excited, disrupting the relative quiet of the room. 

“What?” His eyes don’t leave an infomercial about some magic product that can remove any stain from carpets and towels and couch cushions. 

“What do you think of this place?” 

She shoves her phone at him and Louis takes it, grimacing almost immediately. “What the hell, El? We don’t have to live in a shack.”

“We don’t need a fucking castle,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Not that I could afford one anyway.”

“Portion of payment should be equal to salary,” Louis says, dropping the phone in Eleanor’s lap before folding his hands over his stomach. 

“No. That’s stupid.” Eleanor picks up her phone, types something out quick and then sets it on the nightstand. “I won’t do it.”

“What’d you think, Harry?” Louis asks. 

“Um.” Harry presses his mouth into a thin line, glances between the two of them. “I don’t know.”

“Think about us poor folks,” Eleanor says, “You wouldn’t want Louis buying you a ton of shit if you couldn’t afford it yourself, yeah?”

“You like when I buy you shit,” Louis grouses. 

“Sometimes.” Eleanor’s mouth quirks up and she reaches for the remote, muting the telly. “I do deserve it with everything I put up with.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Come on, Haz. What’d you think? Isn’t she being unreasonable?”

Harry twists his mouth down and crosses his arms. It’s awkward. It feels so awkward, them asking his opinion. “I’m not exactly an objective third party,” Harry says, because he does have as much money as Louis, and because he always wants to buy everything for everyone he loves. 

“We’ll do a poll!” Louis sits up and grabs the notepad off his nightstand, the one he uses to write down all his song ideas. “We can ask Zayn and Niall, too.”

“And Liam,” Eleanor says, reading over his shoulder and snorting.

“Maybe not Liam,” Louis says, “Wouldn’t want everyone we ask to be in the band.”

“You’re just saying that because you know Liam will be sensible and take Eleanor’s side,” Harry offers.

“Of course that’s why he’s doing it.” Eleanor shakes her head at Harry as though they’re in cahoots. “He’s titled the poll ‘Proving I’m Correct.’”

Harry grins, but he shakes his head back at her. “Ridiculous.”

“Here,” Eleanor says, crawling off the bed and grabbing her phone. She hands it to Harry. “Don’t you think this is a nice place?”

Harry squints at it. It does look nice from the picture. He scrolls down to read the description: three bedrooms, three bathrooms. The garden seems small though, and it’s not that many square metres. It’s definitely smaller than his and Louis’ old flat. “I don’t know. Do whatever you want.”

“You sure?” Eleanor asks. 

She looks concerned, so Harry shakes his head. “Yeah. I don’t care.”

“You don’t?” Louis asks.

Harry frowns. “No.”

He doesn’t know why they’re showing him listings. It just hurts, just emphasizes how much this isn’t his decision to make. And now Eleanor looks worried, so Harry smiles because he doesn’t need her pity. He doesn’t need her feeling bad that Louis would rather live with her now. She probably knows that Louis is getting tired of Harry, doesn’t like the way he cuts sandwiches down the middle instead of in triangles, has probably had conversations where Louis contemplates breaking up with him and--

And he needs to calm down. 

“Do whatever you guys want,” Harry repeats. 

And then there’s a knock on the door and the call of “room service,” so the topic is dropped, and Harry tries to eat his ribeye without letting his brain run amok with scenarios about how Eleanor and Louis are wining and dining him right now to make the blow softer when Louis breaks up with him. 

Because, honestly. Harry is an idiot. 

 

 

Harry’s taping bubble wrap around the good plates, the sky outside the kitchen window bruising as the sun sets. It feels too soon to be packing up their lives and moving out, but they’re putting the flat on the market this weekend and they don’t want people coming around just to sniff their pants. 

Harry’s going slow, careful, tape twisting on his fingers and becoming unusable. It’s been a long day of throwing clothes in suitcases and deciding what to put in storage, what to send to their mums in case they suddenly need the warm coats because it’s started snowing in October wherever it is they’ll be in October. 

“Should we order pizza?” Louis asks. He’s got a white cowboy hat crooked on his head. Harry bought it in Dallas at a small shop with boots and lassos and chaps. He’d threatened to buy the store out just to see the way Louis’ eyes had crinkled around the corners before he’d said, “You’re a right weirdo, Harold.”

“Whatever you want.” Harry shrugs. He made sandwiches for lunch, and they don’t have much food in the fridge anymore. They’re leaving in two days, leaving the country for work, leaving the flat forever. There’s a tugging in Harry’s chest that seems to pull him to Tescos, says that if he stocks up on apples and grapes, brings home multiple loaves of bread, the white stuff Louis likes and the multigrain Liam convinced Harry to start eating because it’s better for you, the kind Niall says tastes like cardboard – “You’ve never eaten cardboard,” Harry had said, rolling his eyes, “You couldn’t possibly make that comparison.” – so they can stick the extras in the freezer next to new cartons of ice cream he’d pick up, if he buys a circle of fancy cheese and shredded beef for tacos, they’ll stay. 

It’s stupid and illogical, and he knows that, but Harry still wonders maybe if they don’t finish packing, if the tape keeps twisting around his fingers, if they run out, maybe they won’t be able to leave, maybe if he stalls long enough Louis will realize he doesn’t want to move in with Eleanor at all, that he wants to live with Harry forever.

“Hey,” Louis says, pressing a hand against Harry’s hip. “What’s wrong? I’ll let you put banana on it if you want, will run out right now.”

“No.” Harry sets a half-wrapped plate on the counter before rubbing at his eyes. “I’m okay. Just, kind of sad, you know?

Louis frowns, squeezes Harry’s hip now. “Why’re you sad?”

Harry shakes his head, shrugs. “I guess, just…this was the first place I ever really lived away from my mum and Gemma, right? Like, the X Factor house doesn’t really count, I don’t think. But this was mine – ours. And I know we were never actually here too long.” Harry laughs a quiet, hoarse sound. “But it was home, you know? And it’s sad to be leaving. Weird. I guess it still doesn’t quite feel like it’s real. But it keeps getting emptier.”

Louis stands on his tiptoes, pulling Harry into a hug and kissing his temple. He’s holding on so tight and Harry feels instantly better with Louis pressed against him, breathing warm into his neck. “Yeah, Haz, it is sad.” He pulls back a little, looks up at Harry and smiles small. “There’s none of your dumb figurines on the bookshelf though. Looks better emptier, yeah?”

Harry huffs and rolls his eyes. “You like those.”

“Nah. I like that you like them, though. It’s cute.”

He’s got his hands around Harry’s waist, looking up at him cautiously like he’s afraid Harry is going to crumble to the ground and start bawling if he moves away. He presses his lips together and nods. “Let’s take a break after dinner, yeah? Have a good snuggle on the couch, watch some telly before we have to keep packing?” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

Louis blinks, and the blue of his eyes seems to darken with worry, but he doesn’t press the issue, just presses a kiss to Harry’s check and slaps his bum. “Now do y’know where that green jumper is?”

“Which one?” Harry asks, biting on his bottom lip as he tries to think about what he folded carefully into his suitcase, what he refolded after Louis had tossed shirts and jeans straight off their hangers into his.

“The one with all the loose threads.”

“Right,” Harry says. It’s the one he had originally picked up on a shopping trip with Ed, worn a few times until Louis had stolen it off the floor, started wearing it to bed, refusing to throw it out even though Harry insists he should, especially with the way it’s fraying. Secretly, Harry likes that Louis keeps wearing it, likes the way it exposes his collarbones and hangs past his hands, likes that Louis hid it when Harry promised he was going to toss it when Louis was out. He thinks Louis must like it so much because it was Harry’s first, and even though there’s no way it still smells like him, he hopes it makes Louis feel like Harry’s closer, wonders if he ever wears it on nights at hotels when he’s with Eleanor and Harry is cuddled close to Niall because Zayn always kicks him away, saying he’s too bloody hot for his own good and no, Harry, temperature-wise, you twat. 

“Think, Haz. Tell me you didn’t throw it away.”

“Didn’t.” Harry shakes his head. “Think it’s still in the basket maybe, from Monday.”

“Ah!” Louis smiles wide, grabbing Harry’s face between his hands and kissing him, gentle and chaste. “You’re my hero.”

“Only because you don’t expect much.” Harry rolls his eyes, shaking out his hair before readjusting it. 

“Expect a lot, actually,” Louis counters, threading his fingers through the curly hair at the nape of Harry’s neck. “Not everyone makes eggs benedict like you.”

“Love you,” Harry says.

“Love you, too.” Louis squeezes his hip one more time before stepping out of Harry’s space. “Now I’m going to order too much pizza, save my jumper from your wrath, and pretend I’m still packing while you finish up in here.”

Harry watches Louis pulls his phone out of his pocket, grabbing the list of numbers posted to the fridge and dialing as he walks away. 

The thing is he knows, knows that he’ll spend a lot of time with Louis regardless of whether Louis is living with him or with Eleanor. He knows that the majority of their time is spent together because of travel and work. But it’s not the same, is the truth of it. It’s not the same as waking up with an arm full of boy in a place that he gets to calls theirs. It’s not the same when he doesn’t get to make Louis breakfast and tea in a kitchen he’s stocked and organized, and it’s not the same sleeping on a bed that hasn’t shifted around them, that isn’t used to the way they sleep, that doesn’t dip in all the right places. 

Harry doesn’t see how having a place of his own, a place without Louis, can be the same as having a place with Louis, a place they share. Even if Louis comes over all the time, it won’t be the same. Harry will know, and that’s what matters, will feel it settle cold in his bones and tight in his lungs.

Harry will know the difference.

 

 

“The wardrobe’s too small,” Harry says, shoving his hands in his pockets. It’s a walk-in, and he’s standing in the center of it with Lou. The walls seem to get closer every time he turns his head. It’s the fourth flat they’ve seen and it’s the fourth one he’s hated. The countertops in the kitchen are an ugly granite that’s too dark for the cabinets; one of the guest bedrooms is painted light purple with white mesh curtains, and there’s a stain in the middle of the hallway carpet that looks like varnish.

Lou rolls her eyes. “No, it’s not.”

“It is,” Harry whines. He knows he’s whining, and somehow that makes it worse.

“You can always put your extra pop star rags in the spare room Lou crosses her arms. “Now tell me what other stupid reason you have for hating this perfectly nice and massive flat.”

Harry shrugs. “There’s no garden.”

“If you want a garden so bloody much, why did you drag me to the center of the city?” 

“I don’t know.”

Lou rolls her eyes and sighs. “I don’t have all day to listen to you complain. The shower is too big in one flat and too small in the next, yada yada yada. Why don’t you just tell me what the problem really is, Haz? Get it over with. You know I’ll coax it out of you eventually.”

Harry shrugs again, looks down at his boots and the beige carpet going gray in the dim closet light. The light bulb needs to be replaced. “Sorry. I didn’t think I’d be this much of an arsehole about it.”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Lou says. “You’re not an areshole, but you’re getting near it.”

Harry smiles. Her eyes soften when he takes a deep breath, pulling a hand out of his pocket to run through this hair. He remembers when Lou used to groan at that, before she stopped trying to stop him and the other boys from messing up her work. The words come out easier when he remembers how long Lou’s been there; she’s always given the best advice. Maybe she can magically put him in a good mood. “I guess I just don’t really want any of these places. Like, I don’t really want to move. I don’t want to live by myself somewhere.”

“Have you told him that, love?” She scrunches up her face sympathetically. 

“No,” Harry admits.

Lou steps forward and smacks him upside the head. “Well, why not, you idiot?”

“He and Eleanor are so happy to be moving in together, and I don’t want to mess with that.” Harry shakes his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I don’t want them to worry about me when they’re like…embarking on this new part of their relationship. Don’t want to complicate stuff.”

“You are even more of a moron than I thought,” Lou tuts. She brushes hair from her face and looks at him, soft and serious. “You ought to tell Louis, Harry. It won’t do him or Eleanor any good if you’re moping around miserable all the time. Believe it or not, your mood affects the rest of us. So the next time you’re grumpy because I have to fix the rat’s nest on your head at five in the morning, remember I’m awake, too.”

“Do I do that?” Harry asks, eyes widening. “I don’t mean to ruin your whole day. ‘s just early, is all.”

Lou raises an eyebrow and laughs. “Ruin my whole day, you bugger. A little narcissistic today. Inching more toward arsehole every second.”

“Stop making fun of me,” Harry says, but he can’t help the smile pulling at his mouth. 

“Sorry.” She winks and reaches out to squeeze his arm. “You just need to look out for yourself some, is all. Louis and El will understand. They want you happy just as much you want them happy.”

“Tell them,” Harry repeats, slowly, as though it’s the first time he’s ever thought about it. Lou has a way of making things make sense when they didn’t before. 

“Yes. Do I need to repeat myself, or can we get out of here? I think I can hear the estate agent pacing back and forth downstairs.”

“Let’s go before the varnish on the wood wears off,” Harry says. Lou laughs and pulls him in for a hug. “Thanks, Lou. I love you.”

“You better. And you’re welcome. Love you, too.”

 

 

He still hasn’t taken Lou’s advice, choosing instead to ignore the issue, dancing around it in conversations with Eleanor and Louis. When they bring up their search over lunch, or when Louis is tracing patterns into Harry’s skin before they fall asleep, Harry just shrugs and nods and thinks about what he has to do the next day, what he could make for dinner, if he should go back and get the jumper he tried on but didn’t end up buying. He zones out and murmurs “yeah” and “definitely.”

The first few times Louis would wave his hand in front of Harry’s face and snap his fingers, saying “Earth to Haz? Anyone in there?” Or he’d groan and stop talking, looking pointedly at Harry, annoyance clear in the set of his shoulders and the tautness of his mouth. But Harry’s gotten better at it. Louis and Eleanor hardly even seem to notice anymore.

He doesn’t know if this is a good skill to hone, exactly. And sometimes he wishes they were paying more attention to him, would realize that he’s not listening because it hurts. But he figures this is his best option. 

And whatever, he found a flat. It’s got three bedrooms and three bathrooms and a nice kitchen with an electric stove and more than enough cabinet space for one person who spends the majority of his time traveling. The neighbourhood is nice and private and Harry really likes it. 

He does, honest. And if he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself a bit too much, it’s only because when he had seen the master bedroom, with the huge bay window and dual walk-in closets, his first thought was that Louis would love it. 

“Sounds really great, mate,” Niall says around mouthful of peanut butter. 

Harry grimaces, not fighting the dressing room armchair as it tries to suffocate him. “Yeah. There’s a pool and I’m thinking about putting in a jacuzzi.”

“Louis will love that.” 

“If I let him use it,” Harry says, reaching over to swipe his thumb through the peanut butter on Niall’s chin. “You’re disgusting.”

Niall shrugs. “Like you’d ever keep Louis from a jacuzzi.”

“I would.” Harry pushes himself out of the chair, wiping his finger on a napkin before aiming a shot at the trashcan. He misses and Niall cackles.

“I bet you’ll wake up every morning to a cold bed just to find Louis down there all prune-y.”

Harry tenses. He scoffs his toe against the carpet. “That’ll be a little difficult because he’ll be with Eleanor.”

When he meets Niall’s eye, Niall’s eyebrows are furrowed and he’s smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth to get at the last of the peanut butter stuck there. Harry swears he looks like he’s trying to think of the best way to say something – phrase a question, maybe. In the end, he just smiles. “Well, you’ll find me floating on my back in there, yeah?”

Harry rolls his shoulders back and leans against the table where Lou has laid out various brushes. “I hope you freeze to death.”

“I’ll turn it on.” Niall rolls his eyes, kicking his foot out and groaning when he’s too far to hit Harry. “I’m not a heathen.”

“That’s not what Zayn said last night.” Harry cocks his head, biting down on a smirk. 

“Oi! Zayn would never. Zayn’s nice.” 

“Said your room smells like dirt and vomit,” Harry adds, feeling his lips pull up despite his best efforts.

Niall rolls his eyes and throws his phone at Harry. Harry twists out of the way, but it hits his ankle before thumping against the carpet. “It’s not my fault Josh puked on the carpet.”

Harry shakes out his hair. “You’ll like the flat. You could live with me, if you wanted.” He’s kidding, kind of. He wouldn’t mind living with Niall, he doesn’t think. It’d be nice to have him to cuddle with and he’d probably pull a blanket over Harry if he fell asleep on the couch or on the floor. But he wouldn’t let Harry watch _Love Actually_ whenever he was just feeling like it, wouldn’t squeeze Harry’s hip as he turned on the kettle in the morning, and he wouldn’t be Louis. And that sucks.

Niall gets that same contemplative look on his face as earlier, but then he blinks and he’s wearing a shit-eating grin. “Gross. But I want the bigger spare room for whenever I’m too pissed to drive home. And you better keep your fridge stocked with beer. It’s only the polite thing to do.”

“I’m a very good host, Niall.” Harry tries his best to look appropriately appalled at any other insinuation.

Niall grunts. “I’d bring up the butter incident, but I’m scarred for life.”

Harry laughs, loud and abrupt. He loves Niall so much.

 

 

Harry couldn’t _not_ agree to look at the place Louis and Eleanor are seriously considering. “It’s perfect,” Eleanor had said, sipping on her iced latte, sunglasses on top of her head , pushing her hair back, a few strands falling forward and framing her face. 

“You’ll love it,” Louis had nodded. He had smiled wide and bright and kicked Harry’s leg under the table. 

So, Harry’s here, parked in the massive driveway beyond the gate, tapping his hands against the steering wheel. He hears the slam as Louis closes the car door, in the rearview mirror he sees Eleanor adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder. Harry takes a deep breath and climbs out of the car, biting his lip. The house is large and regal and private. The lawn green and mowed in neat lines, the brickwork nice and almost worn, somehow making everything less intimidating. 

“What’d ya think?” Louis asks.

“Looks good,” Harry says. He shoves his hands in his trouser pockets and bounces on his feet. When they get to the large porch Harry turns around to look at the view, the trees blocking most of the road, everything sprawling and bright green like the lawn. The sky is grey and foggy, and Harry tries to imagine what it’d looked like blue and spotted with clouds. 

He hates it. 

Well, no. He doesn’t. He can picture Eleanor sitting in a rocking chair and reading a book, one of Louis’ hoodies keeping her warm against the wind as Louis kicks a football around the garden. Harry is nowhere to be found; he is in his own flat forty minutes away, cooking too much food for one person. 

“You’re going to love the kitchen,” Eleanor says.

Harry follows them in the house, and the foyer’s massive. The marble tiles make Harry shiver. He would put a warm rug down, something to make the place feel lived in and touchable. Harry thinks maybe the entire place will feel cold and impersonal to him, make him feel like a stranger intruding on someone else’s life. 

The foyer opens up to a living room, carpeted and, much like everything Harry has seen so far, huge. The walls are beige and there’s a fireplace. “It’s wood burning,” Louis says, running his fingertips along the grout between two bricks.

“Cool,” Harry says, trying to smile. The effort makes him tired. 

“It’ll be really nice in the winter.” Eleanor nods at him, rubbing her collarbones like she does when she’s nervous. 

Harry doesn’t know what she has to be nervous about. He shrugs. “Yeah.”

Louis and Eleanor glance at each other, eyebrows drawn and mouths starting to bend downward. Harry clears his throat. “Kitchen?” he asks. 

After looking at Eleanor meaningfully, Louis points behind them and walks backward through the living room like a tour guide. Which, Harry supposes, fits. “Right this way,” he says, affecting a loud and too cheery tone. “You’ll notice the place has a very open floor plan. Very modern. Easy for entertaining hoards of guests. And the crown molding!” Louis slaps a hand over his heart and sighs dramatically. “Don’t even get me started. Gives the place a nice old-fashioned touch, don’t you think?”

Eleanor rolls her eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m selling it, babe,” Louis shoots back, winking. 

Harry laughs because that’s how Louis had shown the boys around their flat—not bothered at all when Zayn reminded him theirs were laid out the same exact way.

The kitchen is spectacular and Harry loves it. Loves the stainless steel appliances and the gas stovetop and the counter and cabinet space. “There are two ovens?” he asks even though he’s staring at them, stacked one on top of the other. Two fucking ovens. Harry’s flat doesn’t have two ovens.

“I know,” Eleanor says, and Harry can hear the smile in her voice.

“I could bake so many—” Harry cuts himself off, reminds himself that this isn’t his kitchen. “Cool,” he adds, trying for nonchalant.

When he turns around, Louis is sitting in the breakfast nook and grinning. Which, okay. Harry’s always wanted a breakfast nook. He pictures Louis and Eleanor sitting there in the morning, eating the eggs on toast that Eleanor’s made, slightly runny – because it makes Harry’s chest loosen a little to imagine that her eggs aren’t as good as his – while Eleanor flips through the morning paper, Louis scrolling through his phone, their ankles locked together. 

It’s bittersweet, makes Harry blink and lean back against the ovens, the handle to the top one digging into his shoulders. 

Really, it’s a nice place, the kind Harry would’ve picked out if he wasn’t living by himself; there are too many bathrooms that he wouldn’t want to clean, too many empty bedrooms to fill. Louis’ rocking on his heels and Eleanor’s twisting a ring around her finger. 

“I like it,” Harry admits. Because, really, everything is out of his hands and he has his own flat and they deserve to live together in a place that they’re going to love, and Harry’s opinion seems to matter to them. Probably because they expect him to spend some time over here, drop Louis off after dates like Eleanor used to drop Louis off, have dinner here and sleep in a guest bedroom with Louis some nights. 

Harry can’t imagine it’ll be enough, but he’ll deal with it anyway. Not enough is still better than nothing. 

Louis and Eleanor wrap him in a group hug, both bouncing up and down, Louis’ face buried in Harry’s neck, and Harry hugs them back. Tries his best to feel happy for them and not sad for himself. He mostly succeeds when he feels Louis’ mouth stretching into a smile against his throat.

Mostly.

 

 

Splaying the paint samples down on the table, Harry surveys them, focusing on the little hearts he drew in the corners of the colors he’s actually thinking of using. He points to a chocolate. “I thought this would look nice in the dining room?”

“It’s nice.” Liam nods, face serious as his eyes flit over the samples. “I like it.”

Zayn just glances up before pulling his phone out. “Yeah.”

“If you guys need any help painting, just ask,” Liam adds. 

“I was going to see if Lou wanted to help me out. But that’d be great. Thanks, Li.” Harry smiles small and bites his lip, trying not to think about whether he should ask Louis and Eleanor if they’d be interesting in painting his flat with him. He thinks he should. They haven’t been shy about asking him to visit their house and go furniture shopping, but he feels awkward about it. He feels awkward about asking them to help with a flat he bought because they didn’t want to live with him. 

And like, he wishes he could just tell himself he’s being stupid and get over it. But it’s not working. So, here he is. Left feeling awkward and stupid with no way to stop any of it.

“Louis and Eleanor aren’t going to help?” Zayn smirks. “Typical.”

“No. I don’t think so.” Harry frowns. “I’ll help with theirs if they want, though.”

Zayn and Liam look at each other, clearly confused. “Theirs?” Zayn asks. 

“Yeah. Their house. I’ll help them if they ask.” Harry shrugs. Even though he can’t stop thinking about it, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

Zayn and Liam look at each other again, Zayn’s eyes going wide and concerned. He places his phone on the table and turns to face Harry more fully. Liam is frowning. “I think you should talk to them,” he says.

“They decided to move in together without asking me first, so I don’t have to talk to them about my flat,” Harry snaps, voice rising at the end, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. He’s tired. He only slept for three hours last night, he hasn’t been eating, and he doesn’t need Zayn and Liam to give him relationship advice. Especially not when he know he’s right. It’s his flat and he can do whatever the fuck he wants with it.

But Zayn and Liam are still glancing at each other and then at Harry, and Harry is about to say something about it, like “Stop feeling sorry for me,” when Zayn looks at him, reaching out to touch his arm. His voice is low and calm when he says, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” He starts to gather up his paint samples because all he wanted was to know if they thought a light green would work in a kitchen. “I’m not an idiot, okay?”

Liam sighs. “We never said you were, Harry.”

“We’re just trying to help,” Zayn says. 

“I don’t need your help.” Harry hits the stack of samples against the table, so hard they make a thwacking sound, and straightens them out. “I’m gonna find Niall.”

He leaves without looking back and feels terrible about it before he even turns down the next hallway. 

But, whatever. He isn’t in the mood. 

 

 

Harry’s lying in bed, shoulders too tense for sleep and stomach knotted. When he glances at the clock it’s nearing 1 in the morning, and he turns over, legs tangling in the sheets. He lets out a frustrated huff and screws his eyes shut. He’s exhausted. Eyelids heavy and mind jumbled, everything bleary and soft. 

And he just wants to be done. Done with what, he doesn’t know. Everything, maybe. Done moving into his house and done decorating it and done living in it. He hasn’t even started, not really, and he’s done.

He’s pulling the sheets up from where they’re twisted in his legs when there’s a knock on the door. Harry inhales, exhales, keeps his eyes closed and ignores it. Whoever it is, he doesn’t have the energy to be a decent person right now. 

When his phone vibrates on the nightstand he blinks, sighs and reaches for it. There’s a message from Louis: open the door. Harry tosses his phone to the other side of the bed, pulling the sheets tight around himself. He knows he’s being terrible, but he thinks this terrible is a better terrible than if he gets up. He thinks maybe he’s earned the right to be a little terrible to Louis. 

Louis disagrees, apparently, because he’s knocking again, louder and more frantic. “I know you’re there, wanker,” he says. “Open the fucking door.”

Well, fine. 

Harry rolls out of bed and steadies himself before flipping on the light. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to stop the gnawing feeling in his chest. He rubs at his eyes and pulls the door open, feels a headache building between his eyes. 

Louis sighs and pushes past Harry into the room, shoulder bumping into Harry’s chest, probably on purpose. Closing the door harder than necessary, Harry huffs, his sarcastic “Come in,” too quiet.

Louis seems to have heard though, because he rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. “Why are you planning paint colors without me and El?” He pauses and then he says, lighter, “Like, I know El’s taste is not as sophisticated as mine, but it’s a lot better than yours.” 

The joke just makes it worse, as far as Harry is concerned. He can feel his face flushing with anger. “Whatever, Louis. It’s my flat. I can paint it however I want.”

“What?” Louis crinkles his brow and looks past Harry as though he’s trying to remember something.

“You and Eleanor can decorate yours however you want. Hang up the Starbucks logo everywhere for all I care.” 

“What?” Louis repeats, quieter this time. 

He’s still looking at Harry like he has no idea what Harry’s even talking about. So Harry mimics, ‘What?” high-pitched and snippy. When Louis’s mouth turns down, eyes softening, Harry feels kind of bad. “Sorry.”

Louis worries his lip between his teeth and uncrosses his arms. The room is quiet besides the buzz of the air-conditioner. Harry feels his chest tighten and he opens his mouth to apologize again when Louis cuts him off. “You realize El and I wanted you to move in with us, too, right?”

“What?” Harry blinks slowly before scrubbing a hand over his face. “You … What?”

“Did you not know?” 

There’s an edge of humor in Louis’ voice, failing to hide the start of a smile. Harry feels lighter – better – but he also feels really dumb. “You never said that. I bought a flat. Of my own.”

Louis’ smile widens before dropping. His eyebrows furrow again and his shoulders hunch, making him look small and closed off. “Do you want to live there? By yourself?”

“No,” Harry breathes, fast and almost silent. “No. No of course not.”

Louis blinks, bridges the gap between them and curls his hand around Harry’s hip, looking up at him, face soft and fond. “How could you think I didn’t want to live with you anymore, Haz?”

Harry laughs, because really, it’s kind of funny. He knows looking back on it in a year – hell, in a few months – it’s going to be really funny. But right now it still kind of hurts. “You never said.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. 

“Specifically,” Harry adds.

Louis smiles small, squeezes the hand on Harry’s waist and reaches up to push a curl off his forehead. “I guess I just assumed you’d know. I can’t believe you’d think we didn’t want you there – that _I_ wouldn’t want you there.”

Harry shrugs. “You know that saying, about people assuming things.”

Louis scowls and hits Harry’s shoulder, but his eyes are bright and shining. “You assumed, too.”

Harry pouts, rubbing his shoulder and adopting his best wounded look. “Ow.”

“Aw, poor baby.” Louis rolls his eyes and presses a soft kiss to the side of Harry’s neck. 

“You’d think after everything, we’d be better at communicating,” Harry says. He’s still exhausted and all the tension has drained from his body, but honestly. This should be a bad sign, right? That they never clarified things with each other, that they’ve spent so much time together and always understood each other so well, that when things started crumbling – well, no. Crumbling is too dramatic, Harry knew that even when he was feeling that way – Harry never had the courage to outright ask Louis about it. Never thought to ask why or tell him he was feeling shit about the entire thing.

He wonders if that’s just on him or if it’s on them. Because Louis hadn’t even realized Harry had a problem. And is that a problem?

Louis’ looking at him like he can tell Harry’s thinking too much. “Harry,” he says, thumb rubbing circles over Harry’s hip, under his shirt. “We’re good, yeah?”

Harry smiles down at him. “The best.”

Louis snorts and kisses Harry firm on the mouth, sliding the hand on his hip so it’s pressing into Harry’s back instead, pressing him against Louis. Harry cups the back of Louis’ neck, fingers carding through the hair at the nape. He tips Louis’ head back and works Louis’ mouth open with his tongue and fuck, he’s missed this. 

When they pull away, Harry leans his forehead against Louis’ and closes his eyes. “You should go to sleep,” Louis says, “C’mon.”

Harry lets Louis pull him to the bed. He lies down and pulls the covers up. Louis’ undressing and Harry asks, “What about Eleanor?”

“She’s good. She’ll be better tomorrow when we tell her that you’re not planning on painting our dining room brown.”

“Chocolate Sundae,” Harry counters.

Louis slides under the covers and reaches across Harry to flip the light switch, bathing the room in darkness. “Doesn’t make it better.”

Harry wraps his arms around Louis and kisses him once, soft and chaste. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Louis says, leaning his forehead against Harry’s collarbone. Harry’s almost asleep, Louis breathing warm against his neck, when Louis whispers, “Still not letting you paint any room brown.”

Harry chuckles and pulls him impossibly closer. 

 

 

Harry stabs at the fruit salad on his plate, pressing his lips together and watching as Eleanor pulls out the chair across from him. Louis’ tapping his foot against the table’s leg and Harry reaches out to press his palm over his thigh until he stills. 

“So, the living situation is all sorted, right?” Eleanor asks.

“Yeah, it uh, it’s resolved.” Harry nods, pops a grape into his mouth and chews. He feels warmer, almost too warm, as he watches Eleanor take a sip of her tea.

“Just a misunderstanding, is all,” Louis says, tapping his fingers against the back of the hand Harry is still resting on his leg.

The thing is, Harry’s not exhausted anymore, and he’s had time to think about it, has the mental capacity to actually process the situation as it is. And there’s something about how Louis had just shrugged and smiled when he said “Just a misunderstanding, is all,” because yeah, that’s kind of true. But, well, but also not really. “But like, you never talked to me about it?” 

“What?” Louis mumbles through a mouthful of waffle. 

“Like, I mean, you told me that Eleanor was going to live with us, I guess—”

“Yeah. I did” Louis’ brow is furrowed, teeth digging into this bottom lip.

“But, you still,” Harry pauses, takes his hand off Louis’ leg and runs it through his hair, “You never asked me if that was okay? If I was okay with Eleanor moving in, or, you know, with all three of us moving someplace else together.” 

Louis’ face goes impossibly soft and his mouth opens. “Oh,” he breathes. 

“He didn’t talk to you about it before he asked me?” Eleanor’s fork is suspended in midair, a piece of pineapple dangling precariously. She’s frowning, eyebrows raised. 

“No,” Harry says. 

Louis presses his hands around this mug, his eyes serious and focused on Harry, body turned awkwardly in his chair. “I was just worried she’d say no, and then you’d know she said no. And it would just be…unnecessary.”

“Seems bloody necessary to me,” Eleanor says, but there’s an undercurrent of fond. “I’m going to get more milk for my tea.” 

She stands up and Harry watches her go back to the craft service table, watches her set her cup down next to the pastries and start up a conversation with Paul. He waits until Louis nudges his foot before saying, “What if I didn’t want to move out? Or live with Eleanor?”

“I, I guess I never thought of that.”

“You can’t just not think of that,” Harry says, frustrated. “I know I’m pretty easy and stuff, but you can’t just tell me what’s going to happen when you want to change something as big as where we live and who we live with.”

“I know, I know that. I promise.” Louis’ insistent, and when Harry looks at him his eyes have gone wide and his foot is tapping again, against the floor, the beat rapid and uneven. “I’m so sorry. I should have asked you, and we should all have talked about it. We can still all talk about it.”

Harry huffs out a breath of laughter. “Not really. We already sold the flat. You already bought the house.”

“God, I’m sorry.” Louis pushes at his fringe. “Like, I don’t know. We can always sell the house and do something else, figure something out we’re all okay with.”

“I’m okay, Louis,” Harry says, kicking at his shin.

“Are you sure? Because I’ve been a right twat about this entire—”

“I’m sure. I just. I liked the house, and I’d like to live there with you and El. There just should’ve been a conversation before any of this happened, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, reaching out and wiping a curl off Harry’s forehead.

“So next time, just talk to me first, okay?”

“Promise.” 

“Thank you.” Harry leans over and presses his mouth to Louis’ cheek. “I knew I wasn’t just being dumb.”

“But most times.”

“Shut it.”

Louis laughs quietly, bringing his mug of tea up to his mouth. 

 

 

For some reason – perhaps because he had been so set on miserably living alone – Harry thought living with Louis and Eleanor in the new house would be easy and comfortable. He didn’t expect to need an adjustment period, to have to get used to Eleanor, because it’s not like she never slept over at the old flat. But they don’t just settle into a routine. 

It’s, well, it’s weird. 

It’s weird when Harry is falling asleep, knowing Louis is here but he’s not going to crawl into bed with him later because he’s sleeping in Eleanor’s room. It’s weird when he reaches for Louis’ mug to refill it but Eleanor’s already grabbed it. It’s weird that Eleanor helps with the dishes and the cleaning and vacuumed downstairs when Harry had been planning on doing it in the afternoon. Even though Harry insisted he could do his own laundry and Eleanor threw it in with hers and Louis’ anyway, it’s okay. He pouted and tried to be disgruntled, but the lavender detergent Eleanor buys smells good and his jumpers are soft. So, it’s not bad weird. It’s just different. 

Some days are better than others. Some days he likes that Eleanor made a fry-up and threw a pillow at Louis’ head when he wanted to and waltzed down the hallway with him, smacking his arm and laughing when he stepped on her feet. Some days he lies in bed alone and wants to go pull Louis away from her, wants to have the kitchen cabinets organized differently, wants to be the one to get the post. 

But he’s working on it. He’s working on having more good days than bad days. It’s okay. He’s adjusting. Really, he is.

They’re watching Mock the Week reruns, Louis’s ankle hooked around Harry’s, laughing quietly into Harry’s neck every few minutes. Eleanor’s feet are tucked under her and she’s blowing on her nails, freshly painted a shade of purple that she insisted is not pink, even though Harry and Louis kept saying it definitely looks a bit pink and maybe she needs to get her eyesight checked – the last part was just Louis, but the point still stands. There are a few half-filled takeaway containers sitting out, and everything is starting to feel more lived-in, starting to feel real.

“We should put the takeaway in the fridge,” Harry says when the show goes to adverts. He hits his toe gently against the coffee table.

“Good idea,” Eleanor agrees, making no move get up, lip between her teeth and eyes still on the telly.

“What? Do I have to do everything around here?” Harry crosses his arms in mock offense and sighs.

“Of course, Haz,” Louis says seriously, poking at his ribs. “We’re very comfy.”

“I’m not going to do it. I’m protesting.” Louis is snuggled up next to him, warm and cozy, and Harry doesn’t want to untangle himself. 

“That’s a little rude, isn’t it?” Eleanor’s smiling at him now, not even bothering to pretend she’s serious. “I was the one who called and ordered. You’ve got to do your share.”

“What about Louis?” Harry asks, raising an eyebrow and patting Louis’ thigh. “He didn’t do anything.”

“Oi,” Louis protests. “I told you when you spilled pepper on yourself. Your shirt would be ruined without me.”

Harry shakes his head. “You laughed at me.”

“Me?” Louis gasps, poking Harry in the ribs again, harder this time so Harry has to fight the urge to squirm away. “I did no such thing. You’re confusing me with El again.”

“Hey now.” Eleanor quirks an eyebrow and reaches over Harry, smacking Louis’ chest lightly. 

“You’re not innocent! Ask young Harold here, he’ll vouch for me.” Louis slips his arm behind Harry, pulling him closer and smiling brightly and innocently. “Right?”

Harry grins back. “I think you’re right.” Because Eleanor did laugh at him, she laughed at Louis’ dramatic retelling, her eyes crinkling and her hand over her mouth.

She huffs, exasperated. “I hate you both,” she says before her mouth twists into a smirk and she lunges forward, tickling Harry until he feels like he can’t breathe. His legs are thrashing around, eyes welling up from laughter.

“Stop, stop,” Harry breathes, batting her hands away with no real force or intention. His body shrugs over, all his weight leaning against Louis. His sides are starting to ache and he blinks, his vision going blurry. 

Harry can feel Louis laughing under him, chest shaking with it. Louis wraps his arms around Harry, shifting so Harry’s lying more fully against him. He slaps Eleanor’s hands away. “Leave Harry alone,” he says, voice airy and still filled with amusment. He shoves Eleanor’s shoulder lightly when she doesn’t immediately stop. 

When Eleanor finally does relent, falling back against the armrest and taking deep breaths of her own, Louis kisses the top of Harry’s head and pulls him closer. “Look what you’ve done, El,” he starts, “made us miss the show.”

Eleanor sticks her tongue out. “A tragedy.” 

Another episode is starting and Louis says, “Shh. Don’t want to miss another one.”

Harry’s got one leg bent on the sofa, his other foot settled on the floor, and he’s not quite sitting up or lying down. It’s vaguely uncomfortable, but Louis’s still got his arms around Harry, his chin resting on the top of Harry’s head, so Harry’s not going to complain. Then Eleanor’s hooking a hand under Harry’s knee, and he looks over at her as she settles back into the sofa and moves to put Harry’s legs in her lap. He concedes, smiles, and she returns it. When Louis moves one hand to grab Eleanor’s, his thumb rubbing soft circles into her skin, Harry feels like they’re a family.

And in that case, he really doesn’t mind adjusting to this. 

 

 

“That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said.” Louis shakes his head as much as he can without lifting it off his pillow.

Harry’s sated and content, still feeling boneless from earlier. He’s smiling. He can’t help it. “But all the suits and stuff!”

“I can’t believe I just fucked someone who thinks _Iron Man 3_ is better than the original. This is unacceptable. You need to get out of here right now.” Louis kicks lightly at Harry’s legs, his mouth twitching in an attempt not to smile.

“Pepper saves the day!”

“Like she didn’t do anything in the first one?” Louis rolls his eyes dramatically before dramatically rolling forward, using Harry’s chest as a pillow. “You’re just saying this because you haven’t seen the first one in too long. We have to fix this, Harold. Or else.”

“Or else?” Harry laughs, carding his fingers through Louis’ hair, still damp from his shower – and probably, Harry thinks, with some sweat. 

“No one will ever find the body,” Louis says.

“You do realize people would miss me, right?” 

Louis cuddles closer, running his thumb over the bruise sucked just below Harry’s collarbone. He closes his eyes. “I think you are overestimating how much people like you. So full of yourself.”

Running his hand up and down Louis’ spine, Harry draws random shapes into his back, humming a little. “Nah, I don’t think so.”

“Well, you’re wrong.” Harry can feel Louis smiling against his skin, breathing little huffs of warm air through his nose. “I wouldn’t miss you at all.”

“Liar,” Harry says. 

“Maybe.” Louis looks up at him, grinning wide. “Even though you’re still wrong about everything.”

“Wasn’t wrong about you.” Harry smirks, and Louis pinches his nipple, laughing when Harry yelps and swats his hand away. “Hey,” Harry whines, “That hurt.”

Louis shrugs. “Maybe you shouldn’t be such a—”

He’s cut off by a knock at the door. Harry presses his mouth into a straight line as Louis scrambles off him and pulls the sheets up from the end of the bed. The knock comes again, a little steadier this time. “It’s open,” Louis says, running his toes along Harry’s calf like he can tell that Harry’s upset by the interruption.

Whenever Louis’ in Eleanor’s room with her, Harry makes a conscious effort not to disturb them, is the thing. When he can’t sleep he doesn’t go in there and ask if Louis will make him a cuppa. He tries to keep the telly quiet, and when he comes home drunk, disgruntled by how cold his bed is, he tries to remember why Louis isn’t there waiting for him and why that’s no big deal. Last Sunday when he had a headache and ran out of aspirin he didn’t knock to see if there was any in El’s bathroom. Harry tries to respect her time with Louis – her nights with him. 

And Eleanor’s never done this before, but she’s doing it now. And Harry’s trying really hard not to frown when she slowly opens the door, as though she doesn’t trust that they’re actually presentable. 

“Hi,” she sniffles. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes look red and puffy. Even in the dim light from the moon and the stars she looks beyond pale, almost translucent. 

“What’s wrong, love?” Louis asks. 

“Um.” Eleanor swallows. “My godmother – my aunt? She might – they found a lump – she might have cancer.”

She looks small, and she takes a step forward, steadying herself by leaning against the bedframe. Harry’s never seen her so frazzled and upset. Eleanor’s usually good at processing and dealing with things. No matter what it is, she’s always been able to blink or roll her eyes and plaster a smile on her face. It’s not that Harry hasn’t seen her emotional or sad before, but she’s never seemed quite this lost all those other times. Eleanor always seems like she knows what to do, or if she doesn’t know, she always seems like she’s sure she’ll figure it out.

Harry feels like someone’s squeezing the air out of his lungs.

“Oh god,” Louis whispers, getting out of bed and wrapping his arms around Eleanor. It looks like he’s holding her up, her head buried in his neck and his face buried in her hair. Harry hears Louis murmuring comforting words that he can’t make out.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry says. He can hear Eleanor exhale, but neither she nor Louis say anything. Louis just looks at Harry, face sad and stricken. He mouths, “Sorry,” before leading Eleanor out of Harry’s room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Harry sits in bed, staring at the door until he hears the soft thud of Eleanor’s bedroom door closing. He stares at his door for ages after that, looking at the clock after five minutes, ten minutes, thirty minutes have passed. He realizes, selfishly and belatedly, that Louis isn’t coming back.

That’s…well, that’s right. That’s the way it should be. Louis should be with Eleanor, giving her someone to cry on and talk to and hold onto. Harry knows firsthand that Louis is good at those things, that no one makes his feelings seem as valid as Louis does when he’s brushing a curl off Harry’s forehead and telling him that he understands and that Harry will be okay, that everything will turn out okay. So.

Harry shouldn’t feel like he’s been stripped of time that belongs to him. Because that’s selfish and terrible. He knows that. He does. 

It’s just.

Louis has slept with Eleanor the last three nights, and Harry had only gone out the first one. And it’s ridiculous, but Harry’s just not used to spending so many nights away from Louis, especially when they’re living together. It’s odd and makes him feel his skin is stretched too tight over his bones, itchy and dry. 

And just like, fuck. He doesn’t want to fall asleep alone again in a bed that is too big, in a bed that has gone cold after he’s been fucked. 

He hates it. He hates it and it’s even worse because he knows there are extenuating circumstances. He knows he should be able to put himself aside tonight and let it go. But he can’t. After tossing and turning and trying to be a better person than he is, Harry gets out of bed to make himself some tea and look for sleeping pills. 

 

 

It’s been a week, and Louis has spent it with Eleanor: making her laugh, cuddling, shopping. And Eleanor’s held up well, trying to smile, eat and sleep, trying to carry on. But her eyes are a little sunken and her skin still looks pale. It’s been a week where Harry’s felt pretty shitty and neglected and guilty about feeling shitty and neglected.

It’s been a week, but this morning Eleanor got a call that her aunt is fine. It was just a scare. 

And Harry’s happy for her. He gave her a big hug and told her he was really glad. And he is. He really, really is. But now they’re all out shopping for furniture and he’s just not in a good mood. The lights in the showroom are too florescent to really give a feel for how everything will look in the house, so bright they’re giving him a headache. Gary the salesman wouldn’t leave them alone even when they said they’d just like to look around for a bit themselves, and Louis is holding Eleanor’s hand, thumb pressing circles into the back. 

It’s private and discreet, they’re the only three people there – so really, Harry understands Gary’s persistence – and Eleanor keeps commenting on how weird this is. She’s looking at a painting, the top half painted black and the bottom a stripe of orange, her head tilted and her lip worried between her teeth. “This is not worth 2000 quid,” she decides.

Harry shrugs. “I like it.”

Eleanor and Louis both turn to look at him. Louis raises an eyebrow. “Really? I could paint this.”

“But you didn’t,” Harry says. 

“Well, maybe I will.” 

“Wouldn’t be as good.” Harry shakes out his hair and starts to walk over to an ornately carved end table. “You didn’t do it first.”

“What’s wrong?” Eleanor asks, sliding up next to Harry and cringing at the end table. Harry hates it too. Louis taps the top of it before giving it a light kick with his foot. 

“Nothing.” Harry’s been doing this a lot lately. Ignoring questions and not being honest about how he feels. He knows he shouldn’t. Communication is key or whatever. He learned that lesson when they had the housing mix-up in the first place. It’s just that he can’t say why he’s upset. Because he shouldn’t be upset. They’ll roll their eyes at him, and Louis will say he’s being a child in a way that is either condescending and sharp or that lets Harry know Louis loves him. And either one would make Harry feel even worse.

Because Harry just needs some time to get over it. He knows that’s all this is. He just needs a night with Louis and some perspective. He needs to step back, take a few deep breaths, and bake a sheet of biscuits for Eleanor’s aunt. It’ll be fine. He’s sure of it.

Eleanor presses her lips into a thin line. Her eyes are warm and sympathetic. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah.” Harry shoves his hands in his pockets and bounces on his feet, fighting the urge to walk back over to the painting that Eleanor and Louis hate and that Harry secretly doesn’t want in their house either, fighting the urge to make a transparent excuse about how he promised to meet Ed for dinner and he really should be going. 

“Seriously, Harry?” Louis asks, raising an eyebrow and reaching around Eleanor to squeeze his shoulder. 

“I’m fine.” Harry shrugs Louis off because, honestly, he is a child and he needs to get over himself. 

Eleanor and Louis exchange a look and then Louis whispers something in her ear that causes her mouth to upturn, but she catches Harry’s eyes and there’s concern there, an invitation to talk if he needs it. 

He doesn’t need it.

“I’m fine,” he repeats. “I’m gonna look at the armchairs again.” He points over his shoulder and turns. 

“Our dinner reservation is in an hour; we should start finalizing what we want to buy,” Louis calls.

Harry just waves his hand behind him and keeps walking until he’s standing in front of a big, cozy leather chair. He falls into it and closes his eyes, rubbing at his temples. He thinks about how Louis’ “our” doesn’t include him. Because Louis and Eleanor have dinner plans tonight and Harry is going home by himself, probably after picking up some takeaway. He’s going to eat it in bed and watch _Love Actually_ and sleep for a thousand years before, hopefully, waking up at two in the morning to Louis’ arm around his waist, hopefully waking up as a better person. 

God, Harry’s usually a better person than this. He doesn’t know if it’s a combination of change and lack of attention – he really loves being the center of (Louis’) attention – and an itch to get back to work, or something else entirely. 

Harry doesn’t like to think about this, but sometimes late at night he does, lately he thinks about it, about asking Louis to choose, pick between him and Eleanor. And he knows, he thinks he knows, that Louis would pick him. Harry had Louis first, loved him first. And he would never actually say it aloud, never actually force the issue. Because Louis is so bright and large, so much love in his heart that it shouldn’t be limited to just Harry. And Louis loves Eleanor, and Harry loves her, too. And it wouldn’t be fair to any of them. 

He doesn’t think that’s it, that that selfishness is permanent, won’t let himself think that’s what’s making him short and terrible. He won’t let that be it.

If he keeps saying he’s fine, soon he will be. 

Everything will settle into place again.

When Eleanor and Louis find him in his armchair, they both smile warmly down at him, Louis holding his hand out. Harry takes it, pulling himself up. “We bought the chair,” Louis says.

“What? This chair?” Harry points dumbly at where he was sitting not even a minute ago, the leather wrinkled, a small dip in the cushion from his bum. 

“You looked cosy.” Louis kisses Harry’s cheek. “See you at home, yeah?”

“Of course.” Harry cups Louis’s jaw in his hand, thumb running over his cheekbone. He kisses Louis on the mouth, quick and chaste. “Of course.”

And there. Harry’s already feeling a little less terrible.

 

 

Harry went to sleep alone, and when he wakes up the spot next to him is empty and cold. He runs a hand through his hair, pulls on his boxers and ambles downstairs. 

He can tell by the way the sun streams in through the blinds that he overslept. He’s going to be tired all day from too much sleep, a weird paradox that Harry has never quite understood. Louis is sitting at the kitchen table, still in his pyjamas, but eyes bright and awake, picking at the Indian food Harry bought last night. He smirks at Harry. “You feeling less like a prick, today?”

Harry doesn’t know why he says it, maybe because he slept for 12 hours and the sleep hasn’t seeped out of his bones yet, his brain still foggy and slow, but he says, “This is difficult,” not bothering to sit down or pour a bowl of cereal. 

“Hmm?” Louis hums around a forkful of chicken.

Harry gestures vaguely around the room, trying to encompass everything he’s wants to say with a sweep of his arm because he doesn’t think he has the words, doesn’t trust that they’d come out right. He doesn’t want to fight. 

Louis swallows. He looks scared. “Do you want to,” Louis pauses, glancing down at the table when he says, “Do you want to leave?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. No, of course not.” 

He can’t imagine not being here, not living with Louis and Eleanor, he’s not used to it yet – still – Eleanor being around, but he thinks he’d have to readjust if she suddenly wasn’t, thinks he’d miss the vegetable stew she makes on Sundays and how she’s the only one who can clean the windows without leaving streaks and how she always giggles quietly when Harry trips down the stairs, as though she doesn’t want him to hear.

“Then what?” Louis’ spilled some rice on the table, the container fallen over sideways from when he dropped the fork into it. 

“I…” Harry worries his lip between his teeth. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Harry,” Louis says, voice thin and tired where it wasn’t before. He picks up a piece of rice and squishes it between his fingers. “We’ve talked about this, yeah? You have to talk to me.”

Harry sighs and toes at the leg of the table. “I just miss you, is all. I’m not used to sharing this much? Sharing you, I mean? I – I know it’s dumb.”

“It’s absolutely ridiculous,” Louis scoffs. Harry’s head snaps up and he sees Louis leaning back in his chair now, arms crossed over his chest. It’s better than Louis looking small and fragile because he’s worried Harry wants to leave, but not by a significant margin. 

“Fuck.” Harry shakes out his hair. “This is why I didn’t say anything.”

“Well, that wasn’t any better. You were acting like a wanker, and Eleanor was half-convinced you were going to like, rip her hair out.”

“Really?” Harry asks. “No. I wouldn’t ever – I just – I’m not angry with her.”

“You’re angry with me?” Louis raises an eyebrow, challenging. 

And fuck. That’s not quite right either. “No, Louis. Come on. I’m not even angry really. Just frustrated.”

“With me,” Louis says, a sarcastic tint to his voice that makes Harry want to roll his eyes and walk away. 

“With the situation,” Harry clarifies. He grips the back of the chair across from where Louis is, looking down at it, the pop of his knuckles. He takes a deep breath and tries to steady his heartbeat. “You realize that in the past two weeks you’ve only sleep with me five days?”

Louis groans at that, exaggerated and annoyed. But when he speaks he sounds sincere. “That’s a really shitty thing to say, Harry.”

And Louis’ not wrong. Because last week Eleanor was worried about her aunt. Because this isn’t a situation where math need apply. It’s not a competition between Harry and Eleanor. If Louis sits on Harry’s lap when they’re all cuddled up on the couch after dinner it doesn’t mean Harry is winning. If Louis sleeps with Eleanor for three days in a row it doesn’t mean he loves her more. Even if last week everything was fine and Louis slept with Eleanor it would still be a shitty thing to say. 

“I know,” Harry whispers. He can’t bring himself to meet Louis’ eyes. “I know that.”

“I’m not going to schedule these things.”

“I know that, too.” Harry wishes he could just go back and erase this entire conversation. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I would’ve gotten over it eventually.”

“God, Harry,” Louis says, and Harry looks up at him, his eyes more gray than blue in the kitchen light. He looks sad, and Harry wasn’t expecting that. “You’re missing the point entirely.”

“I am?” 

“You should always tell me if something’s wrong. Even if you don’t think it should be bothering you. Because I’ve noticed and El’s noticed and, fuck—we tried.” Louis pushes his chair back from the table and it scratches along the floor, causing Harry to wince. “I thought you were just worried about El’s aunt—”

“I was,” Harry cuts in weakly. He doesn’t want Louis to think he’s a complete arse. “I am glad she’s okay.”

“I know Harry. I know you.” Louis shakes his head and leans his elbows on the table. “But we can’t help you if you don’t talk to us. We can’t help you if we don’t know whatever shit scenario you’ve created in your head. You think you would’ve learned from the whole you-buying-your-own-flat debacle.”

“I did,” Harry protests. “I just felt terrible – I still feel terrible. Like, I would’ve gotten over it eventually, Lou.”

Louis stands up and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not like, going to schedule days that I sleep with each of you, Harry. I’m not going to count to make them even. You know that’s not even possible.”

Harry flinches. Because yeah, he does know. “I’m sorry.”

“I think,” Louis pauses, and nods, as though he’s thinking over an idea. “You should talk to Eleanor.”

“What? No.” Harry shakes his head vehemently. He can’t tell Eleanor. She’ll know he’s a terrible, selfish arsehole if explains why he’s been acting so moody the last week when she was dealing with actual, serious shit. 

“Yeah, you can.” Louis walks closer, reaches out and grabs Harry’s wrist, pressing his thumb into the veins there. Harry feels warmer already. “You don’t have to tell her everything, just. I think it’d be good for you two to talk. It’d be good for both of you.”

Harry swallows. “I know I have no case here, but I like attention.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling now. “Wow. That’s amazing, Harold.”

Harry laughs, quiet and uncertain. “Can you keep that in mind, though? Because I get quite needy sometimes.”

Louis presses harder against Harry’s wrist and tugs his body closer. Harry goes easily; he’s so easy for Louis. “Promise.”

“I love you,” Harry says. 

Louis pulls Harry into a hug, and whispers, “I love you, too, Harry,” into his ear. When Harry starts moving away Louis pouts. “What’re you doing?”

“You spilled rice everywhere,” Harry says. He sets the takeaway container upright, carefully balancing in fork against the side.

Louis laughs, “I’m in love with an idiot.”

Harry rips off a sheet of paper towel and beams. “You really are.”

 

 

Shopping with Eleanor is a lot different than shopping with Louis. She had grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him into the vintage shop without a sigh or complaint about hipster fucks. And like, Harry doesn’t mind when Louis rolls his eyes and groans, starts singing Katy Perry at the top of his lungs. He quite likes it, actually. But it was nice being there with someone who appreciated the atmosphere and not just the embarrassed blush on Harry’s cheeks. 

Eleanor had looked through the racks carefully, humming along to the music, throwing a few shirts Harry’s way that she thought he’d like – and she’d been right; he even bought two of them. She’d picked up some things at Topshop, and they’d ducked into a little store and bought 3 matching and obnoxious scarves in a bright floral print. 

So, yeah, Harry would classify things as going well.

“Where do you wanna eat?” Harry asks, holding the bags as they walk back to the car park. 

“Somewhere I can get a burger.” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “You probably know more places.”

“Your wish is my command.” 

And really, it’s not awkward, hanging out with just Eleanor. Harry had worried it might be, had begged Louis to come along. But she’s relaxed and smiling, not afraid to let their arms brush as they walk or lean close to whisper something in his ear about how he’d look good in the boots some girl is wearing.

“We should take a picture with the scarfs on,” Eleanor says, reaching out and tapping Harry’s arm. “Just the two of us.”

“Yeah?” Harry raises an eyebrow. “What about Louis?”

“We’ll take one with the three of us, obviously.” Eleanor smiles, wide and bright. “But we should, too. To like, commemorate today. Eleanor and Harry’s day of fun.”

Harry laughs and follows Eleanor when she turns off their path into a courtyard they passed earlier. She pries the correct bag out of Harry’s fingers, and pulls out a scarf before wrapping it around her neck. Her cheeks are flushed from the wind and her hair has gone wavy and frizzy, but she’s still looks beautiful and happy, and when she stands on her tiptoes to wind a matching scarf around Harry’s neck, Harry can feel her fingertips on his pulse. He’s happy, too. 

“You good at taking selfies?” she asks, smirking up at him.

“Decent.” Harry pulls his phone out of his pocket and throws an arm around Eleanor’s waist, leaning down and grinning before snapping a photo.

“Let me see,” Eleanor says, but she’s already snatched the phone from his hand. “Not bad, Styles. Let’s do a funny one.”

Somehow they end up with the first one, a picture where Harry is sticking out his tongue and Eleanor is cross-eyed, cheeks blown out, a picture where Eleanor is kissing Harry on the cheek, and vice versa. 

“Should I send one to Louis?” Harry asks as Eleanor carefully folds the scarves and puts them back in the shopping bag.

“Of course,” she says, and Harry can practically hear the “idiot,” she doesn’t tack on. 

After he sends _having fun! Bought you one too  miss you xxx_ , Eleanor loops her arm through his and they walk back to the car, trying to think of dumb poses to do when they take their family photo later.

Harry’s about to pull out of the carpark when his phone vibrates with Louis’ response: _ugly fucking scarves. Love you both x_.

Harry grins, reads it to Eleanor and lets her cackle fill the car as she snatches Harry’s phone to send a picture where she’s sticking out her tongue like a very mature adult. 

 

 

Harry’s taking the first swig of his second beer when Eleanor asks, “How do you like living with me?”

She looks…worried, biting her lip, eyes wide and focused. She looks like she’s worried Harry is going to look away and say that he doesn’t, actually. That he doesn’t like living with her. She looks scared that if he says that it means Louis is going to take Harry and move away, leaving her all alone in a too large house. Harry thinks he can tell all that because he feels the same way, that if Eleanor hates living with him Louis will ask him to move out.

So, maybe he’s projecting, actually. 

Eleanor doesn’t let her mind wander like that, doesn’t let herself think up ridiculous scenarios and then believe they could actually happen.

“I do like it,” Harry starts, “but…” 

“But you miss him,” Eleanor fills in. 

“Yeah.” Harry nods. 

And god, he didn’t expect her to understand. He didn’t expect her to look at him without pity and without rolling her eyes. He’s glad, now. Glad he went out with her like Louis said he should. Because Harry thinks he finally gets it: Eleanor knows what he’s going through better than anyone. She might not be as stupid about it as he is, but she loves Louis just as much – Harry will never admit that aloud, though. He’ll always insist he loves Louis the most – and is sharing him just as much. 

“I know what that’s like.” She runs her finger around the rim of her glass, smiling small and sad. 

She doesn’t say it, doesn’t mention all the times they’ve been on tour and she’s been at uni. But Harry suddenly feels like shit, thinks about how he complained when he gets Louis so much more than she does by virtue of his job. Eleanor gets to see Louis a fraction of that time and it’s not fair at all. Harry thinks he’d completely lose it if he and Eleanor’s places were switched. 

“Yeah,” he says, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “Thank you.”

Her smile turns happier, softer. “We should do this more often. Have our own date night.”

“What?” 

“Not all the time. Just like, twice a month, maybe? I don’t know. It’s never really just the two of us. We can talk and complain about having to waste teabags in Louis’ shoes so they don’t smell.” She squeezes his hand gently, reassuring.

“Okay,” he says around an inexplicable lump in his throat. “That sounds nice.” She lets go of his hand and Harry takes a sip of his beer. “Do you think the teabags really get rid of the smell?”

Eleanor laughs. “No fucking clue.”

When they’re waiting for the check Harry finally pulls up the courage to ask Eleanor not to hog Louis. “Because my bed is massive and gets really cold without him,” he continues, trying to make his voice sound passive and nonchalant. 

Eleanor doesn’t even look at him funny. She simply sticks out her hand for him to shake. “Deal.”

There’s amusement coloring her voice, like she thinks Harry is being very silly and very dumb. Harry thinks he kind of likes that. 

 

 

Harry fights a shiver as he picks up a peach, presses his fingers carefully against the flesh and smells it. Frowning, he puts it back and tries another, repeating the process until he has a solid number. Twisting the bag into a knot, he turns around to put it in the trolley when he’s faced with Louis struggling to hold multiple bunches of bananas. “What’re you doing?” Harry asks, suppressing a smile. 

“Trying to make sure you get enough potassium, Haz.” Louis smirks and lets one bunch fall into the trolley, then another, and Harry sees he’s still left with two more. 

“I can’t eat that many bananas.” 

Louis scoffs. “You’ve been complaining for the last two days.”

Harry rolls his eyes and takes the two bunches Louis’ still holding. “I hate you.”

“So just to be clear,” Louis calls, “You can eat…12 bananas in a week.”

Harry puts the bananas back and sighs, pushing the trolley over to where Eleanor is biting her lip and looking back and forth between a bag of spinach and bag of lettuce. “That’s not even two a day.”

“So the days when you only get one are you going to whine about blood pressure or cramps? Because I swear I will push you down the stairs.”

Harry laughs and sticks out his foot to trip Louis, but Louis frowns and blinks, unimpressed, stepping over it easily.

“You’re a child,” Louis says, “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” Louis says, plucking the bag of baby spinach out of Eleanor’s hand and dropping it back on the shelf.

Eleanor raises an eyebrow and grabs it, tossing it into the trolley. “It’s healthy.”

“Makes you big and strong,” Harry chimes in, smirking and leaning all his weight against the trolley. “Like Popeye.”

Louis pretends to gag before turning to Eleanor, pointing to the bag of romaine. “Why are you still holding that, then.” 

“Trying to decide if I wanted to be nice to you or not.” She drops the lettuce next to the spinach and grabs the end of the trolley, starting to pull it until Harry gets the message. “I guess I do.”

“You’re evil. The both of you.” Louis steps on the edge of the trolley and Harry groans, slowing and acting as though he has to use his entire body to keep it moving. “Evil,” Louis repeats, pouting. 

And then Harry’s running down the next aisle, laughing with Louis as Eleanor shouts, “You can bloody walk home!,” after them.

It’s the first time the three of them are grocery shopping together, in an empty market at an ungodly early hour so there’s no one else around, the two employees working having agreed to keep mum about it. It feels domestic and comfortable, and Harry likes how Eleanor swatted the crisps out of Louis’ hand and how Louis tried to replace the grape juice with more orange. He likes that Eleanor asked him what he was planning on making on Thursday because she was going to grill chicken on Wednesday. He thinks he could do this with them forever – this meaning so much more than just picking up groceries. And Harry hasn’t felt this way in a long time – hasn’t felt that way about Eleanor ever, really. Hasn’t seen forever with her until now. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, eyes wide, staring at the cookie dough Louis has plopped on top of the bread. 

“Getting cookie dough.” Louis rolls his eyes.

Harry plucks the cookie dough out of the trolley between his thumb and forefinger, holding it as far away from his body as possible as he puts it back. “I can bake you cookies.”

“Aww, Harry.” Louis shuffles over to him. “Don’t pout.” Louis reaches out and grabs Harry’s hand, holds it between both of his. “It’s not my fault you cannot compete.” 

Harry shoves Louis away lightly. “I’m going to make cookie and I’m going to give them to Eleanor and you’ll get none.”

Eleanor slaps Louis upside the head. “You’re a bloody wanker.”

Louis laughs but he turns back to Harry, kissing the corner of his mouth, reaching up and whispering, “Sorry, H. I’ll make it up to you later.” 

He wiggles his eyebrows and Harry sighs, but he can’t help the blush blooming on his cheeks and the smile tugging at his lips.

When they’re at the till, Eleanor’s unloads the trolley while Louis pretends to read Harry’s palm. “Oh no,” Louis gasps, eyes going wide as he looks at Harry, finger still running over Harry’s lifeline.

“What?” Harry asks.

“I hate to tell you this, but I think you’re going to die in five minutes.”

Harry frowns and taps the hand Louis isn’t holding over his heart. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Louis,” Eleanor says, tone almost scolding, and they both turn to where she’s holding up a bag of chocolates. 

“Please?” Louis pouts.

Eleanor glances at Harry, and he just shrugs sheepishly. If he saw Louis sneak those in the trolley when Eleanor was grabbing a new box of eggs earlier – “Did you even check if they were cracked?” Louis had asked, amused. “I was distracted,” Harry had protested. Because it’s not fair to expect him to focus on eggs when Louis is stretching to reach the milk, his shirt riding up so a sliver of skin shows while he worries his lip between his teeth in concentration – and didn’t say anything, it’s only because they’re not getting crisps or biscuits, and Harry could melt them to make fondue. 

“Remind me never to let the two of you shop without me,” she says, shaking her head. 

Well, Harry probably would have let Louis get the crisps and the biscuits and the chocolates, plus the ridiculously expensive bottle of wine. So, she has a point. 

“Please,” Louis says, sticking his bottom lip out.

“Fine. But just this once,” she concedes.

Louis pumps his arms above his head, screaming, “Victory!” and leaning over Harry to sloppily kiss Eleanor on the cheek. Eleanor laughs, squirming away and wiping at the wet patch on her face. 

Yeah, Harry could definitely do this forever.

 

 

“They were on a break!” Louis rolls his eyes and whacks Harry across the chest. “What is wrong with you?”

“Are you saying that if we were on a break, and then the next day you had found out I slept with someone else, you wouldn’t be angry?” 

“You would never,” Louis says, easy and sure. His body lines up against Harry as he leans back against the pillows and headboard. The room goes dark for a moment as the telly flickers between adverts. 

Harry smiles, scooting impossibly closer to Louis as the episode comes back. “That’s not the point. It’s a hypothetical.”

“Hypothetically, I would realize that we were on a break and that being on a break is not a real thing, Harry. That you could fuck whoever you wanted. I would be comforted by the fact that you probably moaned my name when you came.” 

Harry sighs, kicking Louis lightly under the duvet. “Hypothetically, you’d throw a plate at my head.”

“Hypothetically, this would never happen because I’d never tell you we should take a break. Hypothetically, you’d get so drunk you’d pass out after crying to your lovely mum on the phone. Hypothetically, I think you’re a twat. Oh wait!” 

Harry laughs. He’s not really paying mind to the episode anymore. “You’re right. If anything, you’d sleep with someone the night after we took a break.”

Louis reaches out and pats Harry’s thigh. “You’re ridiculous.”

Harry smiles around a hum. The moonlight makes Louis looked washed-out, still beautiful and serene. “You’re right. We’d be Monica and Chandler. None of this dramatic bullshit.” Harry motions vaguely to where Rachel and Ross are crying. 

“Such a sap,” Louis sighs, half-exasperated, half-fond. Maybe more fond than exasperated, Harry thinks, as Louis squeezes his thigh and leans his head against Harry’s shoulder. Harry wraps an arm around him and sinks back into the pillows. 

When the next episode starts up Louis grabs the remote from the nightstand, turning off the telly. “I forgot to tell you, Zayn and Perrie want to go out to dinner sometime next week.”

“Speaking of sap,” Harry says, grinning. He feels his eyes crinkle when Louis laughs, wiping at his mouth with his thumb as though he’s trying to cover it. “I don’t like the competition, to be honest.”

Louis shakes his head. “‘s not a competition.”

“Thanks, Lou.”

“Zayn’s much sappier than you. More romantic, too.”

“Hey,” Harry whines. “I’m very romantic.” 

“If we agree to dinner you can prove it.” 

Everything goes quiet then. The room dark blue and hazy. Harry runs his toes up and down Louis’ calf, Louis’s thumb rubbing circles into his inner thigh. “Hey,” Harry whispers. “Just you and me, or Eleanor too?”

Louis shifts so he’s looking at Harry. “I don’t know.”

“I wouldn’t mind if she did,” Harry says, clearing his throat. “If she did come, I mean.” 

Louis smiles small, eyes dilated and hair sticking up in the back. “You’re doing better now, yeah?”

Harry nods, returning Louis’ smile. Because he really, really is. It’s like before the moving talk even started, back to normal. It’s better than that, actually. “Yeah. El’s the best.” 

Louis narrows his eyes. “Don’t you dare steal her from me.” 

Harry cackles, sliding down the pillows and tangling his legs with Louis’. “I would never. Pinky promise.” 

Louis groans, but he wraps his own pinky around Harry’s and shakes once before grabbing Harry’s wrist. He uses his other hand to cup the back of Harry’s neck and pull him down, smiling into a kiss. “You better not. Don’t let her steal you either. She’s crafty.”

“Would never,” Harry laughs quietly, the sound fading into a puff when Louis kisses him again, slow and open-mouthed, fingers pressing hard into Harry’s neck. 

Harry shifts his body, bettering the angle and grinding down. He’s already half-hard and that’s probably embarrassing, but Louis just bites his bottom lip and rolls them over, straddling Harry’s hips and nipping at the skin under his jaw, finding his pulse point and sucking gently. Louis moves down Harry’s neck as he circles his hips and Harry bites his lip, bites the spot Louis did. 

The room’s gone hot. The air feels heavy on Harry’s skin and he cards a hand through Louis’ hair, the other on Louis’ waist. Louis’ biting and sucking a mark on Harry’s chest, and Harry groans, tries to keep his hips from bucking. Reaching out, Harry runs his hands under the t-shirt Louis threw on before climbing in bed. It’s too big on him, had shown his collarbones. Louis’ skin is hot under his palms and Harry imagines pressing red handprints into Louis’ back. 

Louis scrapes his teeth over the bruise blooming on Harry’s chest and then grins at him, pushing his hips down hard. “God, Lou,” Harry says, his voice low and gravely, the words spilling slowly. Louis laughs, kissing Harry before pulling his shirt over his head.

Harry’s hands are back on Louis before he’s even kissing him again, sucking on his tongue, making him whimper. “Love you so much, want you so much,” Harry pants when they break away, Louis’ fingers trailing over the waistband of Harry’s boxers. 

Louis grinds down and makes this noise in the back of his throat that makes Harry dig his nails into Louis’s back. “The things you’ll say to get laid,” Louis says against Harry’s mouth.

Harry smiles, sliding his hands down and squeezing Louis’ bum. “Well, you know me.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but then he’s got his fingers hooked in Harry’s boxers and his mouth by the shell of Harry’s ear. “Gonna fuck you.”

It’s really not Harry’s fault that he shutters at that, his eyes closing. Louis laughs warm air in response, nuzzling into Harry’s neck before finally – finally – pulling Harry’s boxers down and getting a hand around him.

When Louis pushes into him later, after grabbing the lube from the nightstand’s drawer and opening him up slowly with his fingers, he says “If you fucked someone the night we took a break, I’d fucking kill them.” 

Louis moves before Harry has time to gloat. 

All things considered, Harry doesn’t really mind. 

 

 

Harry rips open the bag of crisps he grabbed from the pantry, pouring them over the broken remains of the previous bag. The house isn’t exactly bursting with people -- it’s not like a New Years party where walking through the crowd means an elbow bumping into someone’s arm -- but the there’s a conversation going in every room, a few people discussing the merits of ska, an argument about a football match, and in another room Louis is trying to convince Zayn it is perfectly safe to slide down the banister. 

“I think the housewarming’s a success,” Eleanor says, pouring more wine into her glass. “My mum has only complained twice about how we should’ve done this weeks ago.”

Harry smiles and shrugs. “Five times and I win the bet, remember.”

“She’s a big believer in third time's the charm, Harry. I’m going to win and we’re going to go to the beach instead of the slopes.” Eleanor takes a sip of wine, smirking around the glass’s rim.

Harry shakes his head, squeezing her arm as he walks out of the kitchen. “Night’s still young, Calder. We’ll see what happens when she’s on her fourth glass of Chardonnay.”

“Don’t talk about my mum like that!”

When Harry sets the bowl down on the coffee table, Niall and Liam slide next to him. “Sick place, mate,” Niall says, the condensation from his beer dripping down his fingers. “A little miffed you didn’t have me over sooner. Would love to play Fifa on that massive telly.”

“Isn’t yours bigger?” Liam asks, corner of his mouth upturned.

“So what?” Niall shrugs, elbowing Liam in the ribs. “My sofa’s lumpy.”

“Come over any time,” Harry says as Liam rubs at his side and Niall takes a pull of his beer. “Would love to kick your arse.”

“Oi! Have some respect, Harold. It’s not my fault Zayn fucked me over the last game. I would’ve won even despite him had you and Louis not been cheating.”

“Hey,” Harry drawls, looking behind him to grab a crisp. “That’s not fair.”

Niall’s face lights up and he ruffles Harry’s hair. “You’re right, mate. It’s not.”

Harry huffs, trying to knock Niall’s hand away as he takes the crisp. “Accusing us of cheating isn’t fair,” Harry clarifies. 

“Whatever.” Niall rolls his eyes and pops the crisp into his mouth. “Li and I will show you next time. He won’t be texting the entire time.”

“Shouldn’t we just ban Harry and Louis from being on the same team?” Liam asks.

Harry over-exaggerates a frown and tries to glare at Liam. Niall groans and smacks Liam upside the head. “You want to deal with Louis’ speech about how when we play footie he always lets Harry be on his team, so the least we can do is let Louis have him for the one game he’s actually good at?”

“I’m good at Uno,” Harry protests, but Liam just sighs and says, “Louis’ so much better than the lot of us at footie he should have to have Harry to handicap him.”

“I’m right here.” Harry grabs another crisp, eating it before Niall can steal it, too. 

“Leave ‘em alone or they’ll make out in front of us again.” Niall kicks at Liam’s shin and pretends to vomit.

Liam shakes his head, his cheeks tint pink. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Always am. Best remember that.” Niall beams and shakes his beer around. “Damn. Empty.” He pulls Harry into a one-armed hug, patting him on the back once, twice. “Thanks for inviting us, Haz. Really nice place you guys got here. Love you.”

“I love you, too.” Harry grins as Niall walks toward the kitchen, stopping briefly to grab Jay’s empty wine glass, probably offering to refill it for her. When Harry looks back at Liam, his eyes are soft and focused, his face serious. “What?”

“Everything good?” Liam asks.

“Everything’s great.” Harry nods. He’s told Liam they’ve worked everything out: the move and adjusting to living with two other people, so Harry rolls his eyes. He grins after, though, because he knows that Liam just cares about him, wants to make sure he’s really happy, see it for himself. “Promise.”

Liam watches him carefully for another second before smiling back, wide and toothy, his eyes crinkling at the corners like they do when he laughs. “I’m glad.”

Liam gives Harry a proper hug, lining their bodies up and pressing his palm warmly into Harry’s back. He says, “It really is a nice place. I could see a bit of all three of you when looking around.”

“Thanks, Li. I—”

Harrys’ cut off by a hand on his arm, and when he’s pulled away from Liam, he sees Louis, cheeks flushed from drinking and, probably, laughing. He shoots Liam a serious look, but then he’s grinning, letting go of Harry’s bicep in favor of resting his arm around Harry’s waist, fingers dancing over his hip. “Is that Zayn’s jumper?” he asks Liam, offering Harry a sip of his drink

Liam looks down, eyebrows knitted together. He bites his lip and then shrugs. “Dunno, mate. Maybe.”

Harry takes a gulp of Louis’ drink and cringes. There’s too much rum and not enough coke. He takes another sip anyway before handing it back. 

“It looks better on you,” Louis says. 

Harry and Liam both snort. “Nice of you to lie, Tommo,” Liam says.

Louis rolls his eyes. “This is why I never compliment anyone. No one appreciates it.” 

Liam shakes his head and sighs, his eyes fond. He starts to say, “No, no. Thank you, really,” when Eleanor bumps her hip into Harry’s, whispers, “She still hasn’t complained again.”

Harry grins. “There’s still time.”

Eleanor raises an eyebrow, taps her knuckles against Louis’ hand on Harry’s waist. “Lasagna has about five minutes left. Want me to pull it out?”

“No. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Okay.” Eleanor smiles at Liam before walking away. 

Louis is pressed along Harry’s side, solid and warm, his thumb tapping beats against Harry’s hip like Morse code, and Liam shoots Harry a pleased look. Harry can hear Niall cackling over the murmur of conversation, in his peripheral vision he sees Zayn and Perrie listening to Daisy, her hands making large, wide circles as she speaks. Harry lets himself settle in the moment, take stock of it. Most everyone he loves in the same place, laughing and chatting and smiling. It doesn’t happen very often, with all the traveling and scheduling conflicts, so Harry inhales the scent of garlic bread and Louis’ cologne mixing with the vanilla air freshener Eleanor insisted they purchase, files the memory away. He kisses the corner of Louis’ mouth and lets himself relax for another minute as Liam talks about an idea he has for a new song. 

 

 

Harry’s eyelids feel heavy, a slight ache behind his forehead and weight in his bones. Eleanor’s sprawled out next to him. Her sheets are immaculately white; she probably bleaches them during every wash. Her mattress is harder than Harry’s, but not in a bad way. It’ll probably be better for his back if he falls asleep here tonight, buried under Eleanor’s snowy sheets, face pressed into a foam pillow, her heel barely pressing against his leg, the touch phantom-light. 

The telly washes Eleanor’s features blue and soft. “I had fun today,” Harry says. Their date nights are finally blending into his routine, something he looks forward to instead of stressing about. They’d gotten sushi before going to the ballet, and Eleanor’s careful curls are now matted from lying against the pillow. 

“Good,” she says, voice hoarse with exhaustion. Harry swears the weight of her heel increases marginally. 

He tries to keep his eyes open as Elton and Tai roll with the homies on the telly, but it’s after midnight and he and the boys had been up early writing and recording. When he finally closes his eyes he focuses on listening to Clueless and the evenness of Eleanor’s breathing. Everything feels calm and suspended, warm and relaxed. 

He misses the creak of the door, doesn’t open his eyes until he hears Louis say, “I’m lonely.”

“Are you?” Eleanor’s voice is bemused and quiet, barely registering above the movie. 

Louis has peeked his head into the room, his eyes dancing but his lips pouted. His hair is sticking up in odd directions, and Harry just loves him so much. “I am,” he confirms. 

Eleanor pushes herself up so she’s sitting against the headboard again, and Harry follows suit. “Too bad. I get Harry tonight.” She shrugs, a smug smile on her face.

Somehow Louis’ frown deepens, his eyebrows creasing together. Harry swallows down his laugh. “I don’t know if I want to share her, either.” He throws an arm over Eleanor’s shoulder and scoots closer, her knee settling against his. 

Louis’ opens the door wider now, leaning against the jamb, the light from the hallway spilling around him and into the room. There’s a red crease along his cheek, probably from where he was cuddled on the couch watching Zayn and Niall play a level of Mario Kart that was not Rainbow Road, so Louis, naturally, refused to participate. 

“Zayn and Niall left,” Louis whines. 

“Good to know you didn’t just abandon them,” Eleanor says, rolling her eyes. 

Louis huffs and crosses his arms, rolling his eyes back at her. Eleanor simply leans over and kisses the corner of Harry’s mouth. And yeah, okay, so that’s a thing they’ve been doing lately, when they say hello or goodbye, mostly. It’s nice. It’s something that’s theirs. Eleanor and Louis both agreed that Eleanor and Harry needed some things that were theirs – and Harry finds that they were probably right. 

He doesn’t care to define his relationship with Eleanor. They’re not dating, not really, and they’re friends now, more than they’ve ever been before. But then there’s the Louis element, mixing things up, and Harry thinks saying Eleanor is his friend isn’t quite right either, doesn’t say enough, mean enough. And he’s fine leaving the space where the label would go empty, but he needed to stop acting like Eleanor was a friend he saw occasionally. And he has.

Finally, he has. 

Louis’ glaring at them from the door, his eyes dark and his skin golden in the light before the shadow of the door hits his shoulder. Eleanor laughs, so Harry does too, quiet and almost breathless because everything feels hazy. “Come ‘ere,” he says to Louis, nodding his head. 

Louis sighs but his eyes are so, so fond. He pushes off the doorjamb and pulls his phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants. The flash makes Harry blink and rub at his eyes with the back of his hand, but then Louis is running toward the bed and throwing himself on top of Harry and Eleanor. 

Eleanor groans and Harry nuzzles his face into Louis’ neck. “You’re horrible. Trying to leave me out.” 

“Would never, really,” Harry says. 

“Well…” Eleanor’s grinning though, and she moves over to let Louis cuddle between them, moving his arm around her shoulder and scooting down the bed, lying against his chest. 

The three of them fall asleep together, Harry’s hand thrown over Louis’ waist, his nose against Louis’ temple. Eleanor and Louis’s legs tangle, their bodies pressed together side-to-side. It’s warm between the heating and the duvet and their bodies in a lump. But Harry doesn’t mind so much. 

 

 

They start sleeping like that, snuggled together in one king-sized bed, a puzzle of limbs, their breaths mixing together and their hearts being out-of-sync. Some nights Harry and Eleanor’s hands brush over Louis’ back, some nights Harry’s spooning Louis spooning Eleanor, and some nights Harry’s not even sure how it’s possible to bend their bodies just so and still be comfortable. But he knows it doesn’t matter how, just that they’re comfortable, is the whole thing. 

It’s nice. 

Harry feels Louis huffing warm, even breaths against his neck, arm pressed solid around his waist, Harry’s fingers brushing the top of Eleanor’s head above their bodies. Eleanor’s legs are slotted behind Louis’, her arm around his waist, fingers reaching over him, her knuckles slotting against Harry’s ribs. 

Harry closes his eyes against the moonlight streaking in between the gap of the curtains and drifts to sleep happy.


End file.
